


Revolution Evolution

by Contraband



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Accidental Plot, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Animal Death, Assassin's Creed III, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Charles Lee has puppies, Connor brings home another pet, Explicit Sexual Content, Fear of Discovery, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Haytham's A+ Parenting, Horseback Riding, Huddling For Warmth, Incest, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Major Character Injury, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Parent/Child Incest, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Roof Sex, Rough Kissing, Sexual Tension, Trust Issues, drunk Haytham, hurt Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-04 09:59:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 62,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5329946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Contraband/pseuds/Contraband
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're meant to kill each other, simple as that. So why does it keep getting delayed for new levels of depravity?</p><p>A slow burn story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> For this story, I used a daily prompt list from: 30dayschallengearchive.tumblr.com. Originally I posted the list itself as the first chapter, but for the sake of streamlining the story, I've decided to remove the list. 
> 
> Instead, I want to just let everyone know that there are two quotes used in this story that are not original: the first line in the story, which is from Gone From The Wind, and the last line in the story, which is a prompt in itself.
> 
> Additionally please be aware, THOMAS HICKEY is not portrayed well in this story. Though his ship tag with Connor is listed, he is not a good, romantically involved person in this story. Instead, the tag is there for people purely looking for sexual interaction between them. Thank you!

_"After all, tomorrow is another day."_

Connor gritted his teeth, biting back a retort. That Kenway could wipe his hands of all the day's blood with one sentence . . . it infuriated him. All the carnage, inconsequential, in his father's eyes, because life continued and the sun would rise. As if the world's continuation proved the murders insignificant. As if anything could.

The young assassin busied himself with slicing up the best parts of the rabbit he'd snared that afternoon. He carefully skewered bite-size pieces along a thin maple switch, and, after arranging around half a dozen of them, he handed the stick to Kenway. His father leaned closer to the dancing fire before them, holding out the stick to slowly roast the meat.

"You know, Connor," he spoke, his voice grating irritatingly in Connor's ears, "With a name like "the Assassin Brotherhood," I can't imagine you _didn't_ expect your life to become something very much like this. Did you think you'd spend your days picking daisies and petting squirrels?"

Connor stared scathingly at the fire, refusing to look at his father until the initial rage at the quip had passed. He sliced haphazardly at the rest of the rabbit, cutting ragged strips. "I knew what I must do. But I have never liked it. Nor should I."

"Should," Kenway mused. "I'm not sure morals play a part in our lives any more, such as we are. Such as we do."

Connor looked up sharply, pointing the knife at Kenway's chest as he answered, "What I do, I do _because_ I believe there is a right way to treat others. I believe in freedom. Freedom for _everyone_. That freedom requires sacrifices, however."

Kenway laughed, reaching to bridge the gap between his body and the knife, gently tapping the blade ground-ward. "But is that truly what you believe to be ethical? Or is it simply an ideal, Connor? I myself fight only for ideals. Right and wrong play no part."

"I think," Connor spoke slowly, gathering his words as he prepared his own rabbit-stick, "that that is a crafty lie, that you tell yourself and everyone else, so that you do not feel evil when you do wrong. If you do not believe in wrong, how can you know when you do it?"

"How indeed," Kenway murmured, derailing Connor's rhetorical point.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, cooking their dinners, warming their hands, their feet, their backs. Connor kept a close eye on the birches surrounding them, peering through their branches for the smallest sign of watching eyes. 

Finally, the meat was done roasting, and Connor lifted his stick cautiously to nibble at the topmost piece. It burnt his lips slightly, so he retreated. It would not take long in this nippy weather for the food to cool.

"My mother told me stories about you, you know," Connor offered, pulling one of the last two chunks of rabbit meat up towards the end of the stick for easier reaching. "She said you were a great man, handsome, tall, strong, brave, and honest."

Kenway laughed, a rare sound, and seemingly out of self-consciousness -- even rarer. "She said all that, did she?"

"Yes. I remember, because these are the same things she said I must try to be."

An awkward silence fell, and Connor felt a stab of satisfaction as he continued, persistent. "She believed you were an honorable man, worthy of respect, and that I should try to be the same. But I see that she was wrong. She would be ashamed if I were to grow into the man you are now."

Kenway took in a long breath, exhaled quietly, a cloud of mist on the winter night air. "Your mother was a stubborn woman. She had a tongue like a raven, sharp and harsh. It's clear you took after her more."

"She was there to learn from," Connor said bitterly, not done fighting.

"I would have seen you grow tall, Connor," Kenway shook his head, scuffing a boot at the embers in front of them. "But she wouldn't have it."

"Good. She knew you were dangerous, even if she did fall prey to your. . . your. . ." his confidence faltered as he stared at the Templar. What _had_ his mother seen in him really? Could this man have ever been those things: "great, brave, and honest?" Maybe not. Maybe she'd only really seen the "handsome, tall and strong," and filled in the rest with a wishful heart.

He was startled out of his thoughts to see Kenway smiling at him like a wolf. "My. . .?"

"Lies," Connor decided, turning away, standing. He wasn't sure where he was going in the cold darkness, but he needed to get away from this self-satisfied bastard.

"Connor!" he heard Kenway stand up behind him.

"Kenway," he responded flatly.

There was a pause. "Haytham. It's Haytham. We're both Kenway, so it's hardly a defining na--"

 _My name is_ not _Kenway._ Connor decided not to bother with that point. "What do you want, _Haytham_ Kenway?"

Kenway moved closer to him as Connor turned around and their eyes locked. The Templar cleared his throat. "It's dangerous out there alone," he said, stumbling slightly over his words. Peculiar. "You should stay by the fire. When dawn comes, you can feel free to wander aimlessly away from me."

"Do not tell me what to do," Connor gritted his teeth, but did not turn away again. "I can handle myself. You should know that, after abandoning me to the loyalists so many times."

Kenway looked like he was having teeth pulled. "Come sit down, won't you? I can try to be . . . more agreeable."

"I doubt it."

"I do too, but I'll say it if it will bring you back over."

Connor raised an eyebrow, lips pursed. Why was the man suddenly so desperate for company? He hated Connor, last he'd checked. Nearly killed him more than one time, and left him to _be_ killed still oftener. Every exchange of words was a battle for superiority, and he couldn't count the number of insults that had been thrown at him today alone. That was it, he suddenly realized. Could it be that . . . Haytham Kenway's verbal sparring was as close as he got to friendship? Was he _playing_? 

Connor himself found their arguments only irritating, degrading, infuriating . . . he could go on. But it seemed that Kenway enjoyed them, for the challenge and the exchange of wits. He loved the conflict, thrived on it. Previously, Connor had thought of him only as a fury-monger, one who loved to cause strife for strife's own sake. But now, in the dim firelight, flickering across the man's scarred face. . . Haytham Kenway looked lonely.

"Fine. I will sit," Connor decided. "But I think we best leave my mother out of conversation from here on."

"You started it," Kenway muttered.

"What?"

He looked up from his regained seat by the fire and smiled innocently. "I'll do my best."


	2. Diverging Paths

Haytham watched the flames lapping at the curls of birch bark the two had used as kindling, some of which had strayed away from the main blaze and survived into the night. But their burning was inevitable, and now and then he prodded strips of bark closer to the coals to watch them burst alight.

Connor lay nearby, on his side, snoring softly. The hard lines of his jaw and brow that were so stern in waking hours were not much less formidable now. But his mouth wasn't set so harshly, relaxed. Haytham watched him for a moment, the light of the flames dancing across his dyed leather Assassin's garb, which he'd left on to protect against the November wind.

It was true, the boy had his mother's jaw, strong and stubborn. But he recognized a good deal of Kenway in Connor's lips, when they weren't turned downward quite so much. His eyes too, though hidden behind bronze lids at the moment, Haytham remembered recognizing instantly. They were so similar to Ziio's, deep and alive. But the hardened look he was so fond of giving with them was all Kenway.

Warmth crept through him, thinking that for however much his son protested to dislike him, and how often the boy reminded him of his lying nature, he trusted him enough now to sleep in relative peace, knowing Haytham would keep watch. He had faith that he would not wake to a sharp blade at his throat. 

Haytham wasn't sure he had that much faith in himself. He knew what his duty to the order was. That this boy, however much like Ziio, and himself, he might seem, was, first and foremost, an assassin. And though he still had some maturing to do, he was already a formidable foe. It would be wise to cut his threat short as he dreamed by the fireside. But still he waited. For what, he couldn't articulate.

Part of him wanted to believe that his son would see reason. See the ideals he strove for. The reason behind the violence. That what they fought for was one and the same: the freedom to live an ideal life. But he knew, in his core, that they were separate: Connor fought for equal rights for all, whether they deserved them, or would know how to handle the new-found power, or not. Haytham did not believe in equal power. There were some who were simply too stupid, or too reckless, to receive such a gift. It wasn't a matter of having leaders. It was a matter of having the _right_ leaders, to guide the people when their own decisions proved poor. _A bit like parenting,_ he thought, smiling sardonically to himself.

Ziio seemed to have performed well in that arena. It had been difficult, avoiding the topic, after their little spat that evening. But really, for all the mean-spirited things they said to one another, there were as many words of praise whispering in the back of Haytham's mind. Ziio had clearly raised a fighter. A stubborn, hard-headed warrior, capable, strong, ingenuitive. . . he admired Connor, genuinely, for his abilities and dedication to the arts he'd been learning from Achilles. The boy showed promise, the ability to adapt. If only his _ideals_ could adapt as easily as his acrobatic skills or swordsmanship.

Haytham lay back, stretching, and rested his head on a small log, soft with rot. Connor and he disagreed on many key points, but he could see Ziio's wisdom in her son's eyes as he voiced his convictions. The fact that she had talked about Haytham at all pleased him. Considering the way they parted, he thoroughly expected her to have told Connor that his father had been killed in some horrible hunting accident. Instead, it seemed, she had killed him in character, spinning tales of heroism, to ensure Connor had more motivation for sticking to her beliefs. "Your father would have wanted this," he could almost hear her saying. Ugh. She'd always been tricky like that, using the bad to make something useful.

He shook his head minutely. This wasn't helping. He had no way of knowing her motives for telling Connor about his nebulous father figure, or what all she'd said. All he _knew_ was that she had praised him. Given Connor someone to model after, even in absence. He should be grateful to her, really, for letting him play even a small role in his son's life. After all, she'd promised him he would never see his son, all those winters ago.

_The snow had been deep, and he'd been struggling to keep up with the nimble woman after the injuries he'd sustained in their last face-off. They were headed to their cave. The only place he felt safe any more. Every time he walked in the woods, alone or with her, he felt hunted. The cave was a solace, a haven of quiet and the soft glow of things not yet understood._

_As they ducked into the thin crevice that wound into the inner cavern, Ziio spoke quietly. "This is the last time we will cross paths, Haytham."_

_The words felt like another punch in the jaw, and he stopped walking. "Why?"_

_"You know why," was all she said, not slowing pace. He hurried onward, wincing against the pain in his knee from were one of the soldiers had yanked him off his feet. When they reached the cavern, Ziio leaned against the wall, the soft blue light glittering behind her hair, rendering her ethereal._

_"I don't accept that," Haytham said, feeling weak. He lowered himself to the stone floor._

_"I am with child, Haytham. This child cannot know its origins." She spoke with that flinty finality that told him she wasn't bluffing._

_He sighed, assessing a cut on his right arm from a stray sword swing. "I know you don't want me to come home with you. I understand that. It would never work out." He faltered, unsure what to say. Unsure anything could change her mind once she'd made it up. Stubborn as an ox._

_"You have too much work, Haytham, you are needed elsewhere. As am I. We can never share worlds."_

_"You're right," he admitted bitterly. "I know I cannot convince you to follow me. You shouldn't give up your life for mine. But Ziio. . ."_

_She stared expectantly at him. He hated this feeling. Knowing before he spoke that his words were useless noise._

_"Ziio, I would like to help, with this child. I want to know him -- or her, it could be a her. I mean, I want to see our child's face, know our child's voice. Help you provide, be there for first steps and words, sha--"_

_"Haytham," Ziio interrupted, gentle but firm. "Your words are running like a waterfall. You know this is hopeless. We could never have kept this, us,_ without _the child._ With _this new life, it is time to say goodbye to the old."_

 _"You cannot keep him from me, Ziio," Haytham growled, pain and sadness feeding into anger. "I_ will _see my child grow strong."_

 _"You will never see him at all," she said dismissively. He realized too late that his tone had pushed her over the edge of her conviction. Her eyes were hard, blue light glancing off them, her jaw set how it always was when she was hurt. "And he will never know your name. What you do -- what I have_ helped _you do -- is at an end, Haytham Kenway."_

_"Ziio, please," Haytham's eyes widened, his heartbeat pounding against his chest. "I'm not asking for your hand! I only want to know this child, be a part of raising him."_

_"We both know that would be a poor choice." She moved away from the wall, coming to stand in front of him. She leaned down, touched his cheek gently, gliding fingers over the large bruise that was forming on his cheekbone. "You should go now, Haytham. I have helped you all I can, and you I. Our paths grow apart here."_

_"I don't want them to. I will follow you. There must be a wa--"_

_"Go, Haytham," Ziio said more firmly. "Charles Lee will be waiting for you."_

_Cold emptiness ate at his heart and he swallowed hard. Charles. He felt like his soul was being torn into strips, pulled apart down the middle. He had a job, a pledge, a brotherhood. And Charles. But this child, this woman. He loved her, he knew he did. But it made no difference now. The die had been cast. "I will see our son," he said icily, standing on unsteady legs._

_"Perhaps," she answered, studying him with something dancing in her eyes that he couldn't read. "It will be a son," she added, nodding. "Of that much, we agree."_

_Haytham turned out into the snow again to find the wind had picked up, whirling ice flecks in his eyes, burning his sores. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into the drifts and fall asleep, covered by the falling snowflakes. But Charles would be waiting for him back at the inn.  
_


	3. Incrimination

Haytham sauntered into the dimly lit inn room, noting that Charles was still awake, if lying down. His friend sat up, squinting against the streams of lamplight pouring in from the hall beyond. "Haytham, you're back."

"It would seem I am, yes." Haytham crossed the room to sit at the head of the bed. Charles sat up, seeming discomforted.

"You've been very mysterious lately," Charles smiled slightly. "I haven't seen you this free-roaming since we were young men."

Haytham chuckled, sadness creeping in almost immediately after, molding his smile back into neutral composure. He remembered those days very well: a sharp contrast to the bleak political battlefield he now found himself wandering. Then things had been light-hearted. Playful banter around a fireplace, evenings of drinking and dancing. He'd had worries then, yes. But he'd also felt he could face them. Over the years that hope had been battered beyond recognition.

"Where have you been, Haytham? You left so suddenly, I was afraid something was amiss."

Charles' words snapped him out of his moroseness. "No, no. I had personal business," he clenched his jaw, unsure what to tell and what to leave. How to proceed, after what his son had told him. Which could he trust? The fact he wasn't sure was cracking the thin ice supporting his psyche. When his traitorous, estranged son was as likely to be trustworthy as his long-time lover and friend, what hope was there left? No wonder his days were dark.

"Personal business." Charles punctuated each word. "I've gone with you to buy bloody undergarments." He rolled over, no doubt set on ignoring Haytham now.

The latter sat there a moment, on the floor, watching his companion. Wishing he knew what to say, what to do, that could clear everything up. Perhaps bluntness was the best approach in the end. He couldn't slink around the conversational snares Charles set forever. Besides, the man was already pissed with him. Might as well get things out of the way now and only have the one spat.

"I've been working with my son," he said quietly.

For a brief moment Charles didn't respond. Didn't move. Then slowly he rolled back over to face Haytham. "I'm sorry, you what?"

"I've been working with my son," Haytham repeated, fixing his eyes on Charles'. "For the moment, we have common goals. And I was curious." The second admission spiked his adrenaline, despite what a small statement it was. He knew how closed off Charles could get about these things. Particularly when these things took him away from home and hearth. Charles didn't like sharing attentions, of whatever nature.

"Curious!?" Charles sat up again, glaring down at Haytham, who recoiled ever so slightly. "Are you mad? That mongrel should be dead, not prancing around the woods with you for days on end, learning our secrets, learning how you fight, how to ki--"

"Charles!" Haytham stood, regaining the literal high ground. "Don't you dare speak to me as though I'm an ignorant child. Was it not I who brought you into this order? I that trained you?"

Fury still played in Lee's green eyes, but he did not speak further, allowing Haytham to continue.

"That mongrel is my offspring, and he's beginning to trust me, what's more. I believe I may yet bring him 'round, to seeing our side of things. He could be a useful asset."

"Useful assassin," Charles growled. "This boy would sooner slit your throat than you could blink, Haytham. Look at what happened to Hickey."

"On your watch!" Haytham shot back. "That idiot was unrelenting and cocky, harassing Connor for the sake of it. It's no wonder my son felt the need to silence him."

"Haytham, do you hear yourself? "Connor." "My son." This man is an assassin! He needs to die, plain and simple."

Haytham felt fire creeping insidiously through his veins, urging him to do anything but sit still and argue. He felt a fight in his blood, and pushed it down stubbornly. Then he replied, biting the bullet at last. "Was it as simple, deciding on the murder of Ziio and her people?"

Charles lifted a hand, and at first Haytham thought he was going to try to punch him, but then he lowered it again, slowly. "I did my duty. They had to see reason, and would not. There was no alternative."

"Why did you never, not once, speak of this?" Haytham concentrated on keeping his expression one of steel. He could not cry right now. He was beyond that sort of thing. "I had to find out from my motherless child, who knew you by name, Charles. He says you murdered his mother, and the entire village, burned them alive. And you never thought to tell me the orders had been carried through. You knew my stance on it."

"That's why I never spoke of it, Hayth," Charles murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "It had been done, there was no taking it back. I didn't want to hurt you more. I didn't think you'd ever learn of it. You've avoided that valley since. . ."

"You knew Ziio was there," Haytham said, his mind still stuck in the murky waters of what was being confirmed by his lover. "Charles. . . why did my son know your name?"

His companion looked genuinely confused for a moment, brow lines furrowing as he thought back. "It was so many years ago," he shook his head.

Haytham's eyes narrowed, certainty settling in a cold film over his heart. Connor had been telling the complete truth, in detail, and Charles was still pretending he was at no fault. "Let me refresh your memory then. You held my boy by the throat and told him he was worthless. Told him he was ignorant, beneath us. And then you proceeded to murder his mother."

"Haytham, you said yours--"

"Enough, Charles. You've always been jealous of anyone who showed me affection--" he ignored Charles' attempt to interrupt here, "--Enough to murder my lover, threaten my child, and incriminate him beyond repair, all to see him hanged."

"He is an Assassin, Haytham!" Charles objected, standing from the bed so their faces were inches apart, glaring at each other.

"Yes, and a good one," Haytham snarled, shoving Charles backward. "He survived to tell the tale. The truth. So now, if you don't mind, I'm going back out, to 'prance in the woods.'"

"You're mad," was all Charles managed to say before Haytham had crossed the room to the door. Charles tried to place a hand on his shoulder, turn him around again, but Haytham shook it roughly off. "Don't wait for me."


	4. Tongue-Lashings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was kind of concerned at first that travel insurance sorts of things weren't really a thing back then, and was wondering how I would incorporate this. But I did a little research and it sounds like they actually were a thing in varying forms by the 17th century! The more you know!

"I am not asking you to go against the crown," Connor insisted. "All I ask is that you provide me insurance that if this convoy goes badly, the people who need the supplies get compensated. Without either the supplies, or money to pay for more, they will not make it."

The elderly shop clerk frowned, clucking his tongue in disapproval. He looked from Connor's eyes to the pile of crates on the shop floor beside him. "Son, it's a cold winter, and a hard one. The working people are suffering. I know that. But we also both know that these supplies are not for civilians."

"This is a good business opportunity," Connor tried again, at a loss. "I will give you two hundred pounds right now," he pointed at the heavy bag of money on the counter. "If my convoy is successful, you keep it."

"If you're not successful, on the other hand, for which there's every chance, it would mean the crown interfered. You're not their friend right now, that much is clear. I won't make any such promise of assisting those the military deems criminal to aid. If you can't do it on your own, I can't get involved further."

Connor took a second to process his frustration, let it flow out his fingertips as he worked his hands into and back out of fists inside his leather gloves. "No one would know. I can arrange for someone to be the delivery boy. You just need to give him the money, or new supplies, if these are confiscated."

"What are you, beetle-headed, son?" The man seemed angry for a moment, but as quickly it was gone, replaced with a wheezing sigh. "I'm sorry, we can't insure you for a journey like that. You'll just have to go elsewhere."

Dejected, Connor nodded, and set about carrying crates to the cart. The shopkeeper watched him grimly the entire time, and gave Haytham a particularly hard stare as the man came inside to help. "Sir," Haytham said politely, nodding. "A good morning?"

"A morning," the shopkeeper said simply, and turned away to take stock of the medicine bottles shelved behind the counter.

At last, all the supplies were jammed into the small cart, and they were ready to be off. Connor scaled the side of the wagon, seating himself beside Haytham, who already had reins in hand after depositing his last crate. "Shall we?" he asked, giving Connor a rare smile.

Connor gave a small nod, and glanced back at the supplies once again to ensure everything was in order. It was going to be a long journey, and with all the times he'd sabotaged envoys of the crown himself, he knew it was dangerously easy to lose cargo. Cargo the rebel soldiers needed, badly.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Connor looked out over the fields, covered in deep snow up to the seeded tips of their wheat stalks, and the iced-over fence posts that told him his contacts were without a doubt shivering by fires, half-frozen, at this moment, praying for blankets and warm soup.

"I'm not surprised he turned you down," Haytham spoke, a cheerful ring in his voice that didn't fit. "William's an honest old goat, and no friend to the lobsters. But he's a shrewd businessman, and knows a bad deal when he sees it."

Connor wasn't sure how to respond to this commentary. It was true, the man was honest, if nothing else. He could easily have signed the contract, taken the money, and trusted that they would be killed, unable to hold him to the terms if he decided to ignore his duty and spend the money anyway. "It is hard to find a friend loyal enough to the cause to put his own neck in danger," he agreed eventually.

"And all those who are willing did, and are now rotting away in prison or the ground." Haytham clucked to the horses, who had slowed down due to the slick ice coating the road ahead. It was risky, pushing them at a normal pace with such treacherous footing, but time was of the essence.

The ginger mare on the right was reluctant to keep pace with her high-strung companion: a black gelding of no more than four years. But he dragged her along and soon she'd summoned up her courage.

Connor watched them quietly, soothed by the soft clopping of their hooves in the snow, interrupted here and there with the crackling of brittle ice. The mare, who Achilles called Freyja, was from home, and Connor had brushed her out many times, and ridden her to the coast. She was a good, dependable beast. The other, called only "Boy," was Haytham's, and he was as hard-headed as his owner. Boy was unused to the job of a cart horse, and shied from the wagon rolling behind him when he moved, which caused him to keep up a frenzied trot most of the time.

"This stretch should go unchallenged," Haytham spoke again. "We oughtn't have to stop until the other end of this bit of forest."

Connor muttered agreement, eyes trained between his mare's ears as they proceeded jarringly over frozen pebbles.

"If you're right about the river, we can get there by tomorrow dusk easily."

Why was he trying to make conversation? He had been much different since he had gone back to his "brotherhood." He seemed almost friendly. Agreeable. Maybe he was sick. The idea didn't displease Connor. He thought back to the shop, the way the old man had looked at Haytham. Like he didn't understand either, why this man was being so helpful.

"The shopkeeper, William. He seemed nervous when he saw your face," Connor ventured. "It seems strange you have brothers of liberty for contacts."

"We've always had a strange companionship," Haytham agreed. "When first we met, I asked for ale and bullets. He rarely asked questions, but always shared what he knew. That's exactly the sort of person I value." He glanced at Connor, giving him a pointed look.

Unperturbed, Connor soldiered on. "Truth told, I am still surprised that you are helping me. Do your Templar brothers know?"

Haytham sighed, keeping his eyes on the horses. "It is a wise father that knows his own child."

"Is that from your dead writer? The one with the poems?"

"Shakespeare," he confirmed with a shake of the head and a chuckle. "Yes, the dead writer."

"It does not answer my question."

Haytham turned in his seat, examining Connor closely as the horses plodded along the empty road. "I have found, in the last few days, a damning number of my beliefs were lies. I sought you out determined not to be swayed, but to sway. To win you over to our cause, help you see your errors."

Connor tried with all his might not to let the surprise he felt show. He blinked, set his jaw, and listened hard for signs of deception.

"I spoke with Charles, about what you had told me." Haytham's eyes glistened in a way that looked disturbingly like he was trying not to weep. Connor looked down at his own clasped hands instead, refusing to acknowledge this strangeness.

"He confirmed it," Haytham continued, resignation heavy in his voice. He sounded ten years older, exhausted and disheartened.

This Templar, this killer, this murderer, this man, Haytham Kenway, his father, was admitting he had been wrong. Acknowledging his son's truth, recognizing that a close friend of his was a liar. That Charles Lee could not be trusted. That he had been responsible for his lover's death. If the dismal reality of it hadn't weighed so heavily, he would have smiled. His father might not be completely lost. He cared enough to confront Lee. And now he was back, here, on a convoy cart, with Connor.

"You are helping me because you do not want to be with Lee now?" Connor explored the implications, trying to sound nonthreatening.

"It's not so simple," he said sullenly. "He was not completely in the wrong."

Connor wanted badly to object. After all he had told his father about that horrible day, how could he still think Lee was anything but evil? Of course. . . this was Haytham Kenway he was talking to. He was a self-serving bastard with no sense of decency, and he had only a week or so before insisted morals were not important. In fact. . . "How could he be if there is no wrong?"

"I mean incorrect," Haytham amended. "Your people were very difficult about the whole thing."

"My people were defending their homes. We lived there, and your men wanted to steal it, ruin in, drive us out. Why should we be anything but difficult?"

"We would have provided jobs, a place in society for you, if you'd only listened," Haytham waved a hand animatedly. "We were prepared to help you all transition into modern society. But your elders wouldn't have it. We had no choice. I understand what he was feeling then."

The hope that had been growing in Connor's chest now sunk to his stomach, heavy and sickening. "Do you also feel we are lesser than you then? Inferior? Stupid?"

"No, Connor," Haytham began, "I don't me--"

"That is what he was feeling that day on the hill, Haytham Kenway." Connor balled his hands into fists, wishing very much he could just push his father from the cart, laugh at him as he got smothered in coldness. But he knew that would be childish, and he very much needed this man to understand, to listen, to his point.

Haytham said nothing, but slowed the horses as they approached the birch and pine woodland ahead. Goodbye to Boston.

"He made those the only choices. If he did not want to kill us, did not enjoy it, he would not have. There were other ways. Slavery or death are no options at all," Connor ranted on. "If he truly wanted to do what was right, he would make alliances with us and leave us in peace. Or if your Templar brothers truly wanted order, you would not force our hands to war by giving us such choices."

"Hush," Haytham shooshed him urgently. Connor scowled, opening his mouth to continue, but Haytham pointed at the forest before them. The Assassin squinted against the morning sunlight, peering into the trees. Cris-crossing in and out of their line of vision were flashes of bright red against the greys and whites of the birch trunks.

"Redcoats," Haytham murmured. "This is why I am helping you. Stay quiet, let me talk for us. They'll let us onward easily enough."

"Because you and these murderers are close friends, of course," Connor growled.

"Enough!" Haytham spat. "If you want the benefit of my alliances, which I highly recommend embracing, you need to hold your tongue."

The redcoats advanced steadily, winding into full view now on the roadway.

Connor held his tongue, promising himself the pleasure of lashing Haythem with it thoroughly once they were through this.


	5. Prudence and Chastity

Connor and Haytham stood back to back, fists out. Connor flexed, testing his hidden blades, though he knew they were still flawless like the day Achilles had entrusted them to him. Haytham's sword was still in his possession, but he was choosing for whatever reason not to employ it just now.

"This didn't go quite how I planned it," Haytham said wryly. "Still, an admirable second plan."

Connor scoffed, stepping a few inches away, but not daring more as the redcoats circled them, bayonets at the ready. "This man is a traitor and a spy," the nearest of them spoke loudly, his voice ringing clear in the thin winter air.

"And a murderer, but that's hardly the point," Haythem muttered. Connor elbowed him sharply in the back and he lurched.

"I'll not tell you again!" The presumed commander yelled. "Turn him over easy, and you are free to go."

"And the cart?" Haytham asked, glaring with contempt. "I suppose all these supplies will be confiscated to fill your own bellies?"

"All property in the hands of fugitives and war criminals are rightfully the crown's."

Connor made up his mind. He wasn't going to stand around waiting for Haytham to sell him out and cut his losses. He lunged forward, elbowing the commander's bayonet aside and landing a kick to the gut. He heard Haytham jump into action behind him, and the clash of metal and the hard thumps of punches and swipes with their weapons landing on thick leather filled the air. The horses, standing a good twenty meters away, whinnied shrilly, stamped, and danced.

The hidden blades made quick work of their opponents, and within three minutes, the snow was stained with blood and mud alike, churned by frantic feet. Connor wiped the blades in the snow as best he could, drying them against his clothing. Beside him, Haytham, who had not once drawn his sword, nor upholstered his pistol, was searching the nearest corpse. "Good, money. And an interesting little bit of knot-work. Soldiering's boring work indeed." He pocketed both and moved on to the next.

"We should move," Connor said, looking back at the cart anxiously. "Now."

Haytham followed his gaze, but the horses were calming and no one was coming. "One moment more," he argued, and went to the commander's body. He pulled out a few documents from various pockets, put them in his own, and turned to rejoin his son, who had decided to soothe the horses.

Connor stood a few moments by Freyja's muzzle, petting her gently and murmuring comforting little nothings. Then he kissed her nose and climbed onto the cart, keenly aware of his father's eyes on him.

"You are very fond of the beast," Haytham stated, taking up the reins once more.

"She's a good horse," Connor agreed. "She has saved me many times, and never gives up."

Haytham chuckled, reaching to pat Connor's shoulder, which he withdrew from apprehensively. "You're so angry, all the time. It's funny to me, that the one being you show appreciation to is a bleeding horse."

"She's the only--" he paused, not very familiar with the use of 'being' as a noun -- "being, that I know I can trust."

"It's good then, that you have her," Haytham said amiably. "Charles--" he stopped abruptly. "Sorry, I don't know why I brought him up."

"No, say it." Connor hated the man more than anything, and he hated nearly as much that Haytham still thought of him on friendly terms, but there was no harm in talking about him just now. There was a pleasant atmosphere at the moment, that he wasn't eager to be responsible for killing. Leave that for later. Before the soldiers had come upon them, they had been in the middle of something Connor still did not want to let go. But right now, he wanted to rest, and enjoy the pretense of light conversation.

Haytham examined a deep-looking cut on his wrist, just where coat and glove left a thin target, and then reached up to untie his neckerchief. "It's only, Charles has a couple of dogs that he's quite fond of, as well. He calls them Prudence and Chastity. They're more spoiled than most gentry children."

The image would have amused Connor greatly if his hatred wasn't so overpowering. Humanizing the man who'd done so much evil didn't make it easier for him to distinguish the morality of his life goal. But he tried to focus on Freyja, and bring the conversation back to kinder things. "Animals are children, in a way. They are clever and loving and wicked, and you need to be firm with them so that they grow to be good and kind."

Haytham listened quietly, a small smile dancing on his lips as he tried to tie off, one-handed and clumsily, the make-shift bandage for his wrist. "We all need strong examples, it seems" he mused, preparing to bite one end of the neckerchief for stability while knotting it off.

"Here," Connor reached over to help. With his thick deerskin gloves, he was almost as clumsy as Haytham, however. He quickly removed them, cold instantly wrapping around his fingers as he deftly fastened the bandage. "Now we should go."

"Yes, alright," Haytham said, staring at Connor's hands. One still rested on his wrist, fingers curled slightly around it. "Would you like to drive for a while?" he offered the reins. Connor gratefully accepted, glad for a distracting reason to remove his hand without things becoming awkward. His mind had gone blank, a curtain of fog descending as he tied that knot. He'd forgotten to withdraw.


	6. Kindling

The horse came back alone.

Haytham bit his lip, mind whirring through possibilities. He stepped forward and clucked to the frightened mare, who had stopped short about ten strides away, shying and turning sideways. Her eyes were wild and her nostrils flaring. If Connor had fallen unrelated to the soldiers ahead, it didn't seem likely the horse would leave him. On the other hand, if the soldiers had apprehended him, they wouldn't let the horse run loose.

"There, Freyja, there," he murmured, taking an experimental step closer. The mare bobbed her head, stamped a hoof in the snow. Her breath billowed in clouds from her nostrils as she snorted distrustfully.

Connor hadn't been gone more than ten minutes. Going ahead to distract the soldiers was a dangerous plan, but the Assassin on horseback was more likely to escape unharmed than a trundling cart, wheels deep in the slush. Haytham had insisted Connor be the decoy. He was a good rider, clever with hiding, and he had had faith the boy could make it work. Besides, it kept him safe, with the goods, out of sight. The small clearing by the road that he'd directed the cart into was well sheltered with branches and bracken, and he doubted he was visible.

If he went to look for his son now, the wagon would be left unguarded. If he stayed, he could be damning Connor to a fight even he couldn't handle. Haytham had been impressed with his battle prowess in previous scuffles, even going so far as to leave him to fight it out alone to exhibit his skills. He had not disappointed.

In times of indecision, his thoughts often turned to Ziio. Perhaps the feeling of torn loyalties had been so deeply branded into him then that now it was impossible to dissociate it from present conflicts. Unfairly, thinking of her now twisted his motives in directions they normally wouldn't dare go. She was fiercely loyal to her people and her blood, and if she knew that he had finally gotten the chance to be a part of their son's life now, only to toss it to the wind over selfish cowardice. . . 

"Alright," he said aloud, nerves electric. The mare snorted again, but plodded nearer, suspicion seeming to subside. "Come here, girl," he added more gently. "Let's hitch you back to the cart. You're likely tired after so much panicking." 

Freyja allowed herself to be led back to the cart, and, after a cranky but lazy kick towards Boy, she was harnessed. Haytham wasted no time in undoing Boy's fastenings and climbing aboard. The gelding was less than enthusiastic, having grown sleepy in the time they had waited for Connor's return. He stepped sideways, scuffed at the snow, and then locked up, refusing to move.

He gave a vicious kick and the horse lunged forward, through the thinner area of bracken they'd come in from, and they cantered down the road, cold wind cutting at Haytham's cheeks. There was no sign ahead of life, but the road turned here and there, making it difficult to feel prepared. He saw hoof-prints ahead, however, and kept them in focus as they continued, occasionally having to slow to distinguish between her journey out and her rushed return. Eventually the tracks circled, a tight turning of a nervous horse, and he slowed to a walk. "Here, boy, easy."

The tracks continued after circling, into the woods. It looked as though Freyja and Connor had cleared a thick hedge of thorns by the side of the road. He circled around, encouraging Boy when he whinnied nervously. The looming branches above them were disconcerting, he supposed, with the sun preparing to sink, and having seen the other horse so distressed. He patted Boy's neck in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. "Come on."

Some time later, perhaps five minutes, he met the road again, and stopped before coming out into the openness of it. He tried to peer through the branches for signs of danger, but had trouble seeing anything past the snow-laden pine boughs. 

An unbidden image came of Ziio, hand on her belly, snarling at Haytham to stop being selfish as they stood outside the inn in dim lantern light. He hadn't know then. She was so protective, selfless. She had no fear, and no doubt. That was what they had loved about each other, he remembered. He charged recklessly into battles a sane man would question, and she, often laughing, would join, throwing her natural caution aside. They had been unstoppable, and beautiful, together. She would hardly know him now. True, he was still bold and exerted power, but when push came to shove, he turned and ran. Made his son -- their son -- bear the biggest burdens, at his beck and call.

Once again spurred on by what he'd long since discarded of himself, he spurred Boy through the branches, pushing them away from his face as they went, and they plodded out into the roadway.

Soldiers littered the snow, scraps of uniform and flesh strewn here and there. Pools of blood, congealed in the cold, coated the ground around each body. Connor had clearly been fine up to this point. He noticed that here Freyja's hoof-prints turned about. She had reared, jumped, and bolted, it seemed, back to where he'd been waiting. Connor had gone on from here on foot. Haytham set about distinguishing his footprints from those of the soldiers, which did not take long. The soldiers had professionally crafted uniform boots with a clear, neat, print. Connor's were rabbit skin, self-made, and left only soft ovals in the snow.

These went on for some time, down the road. Further than he would have thought Connor would go without coming back to consult. The road was straight here, which gave him some relief. If anyone was ahead he would see. Then he came across another set of tracks. Military boots. No doubt Connor had finished with the men behind and seen this one. And this one had seen him. There could be no witnesses. He took respite in this revelation and spurred Boy onward.

Worry for the cart, unsupervised, was nagging at him when he saw the forms ahead. The sun was sinking in earnest now, but he could easily recognize his son's strong build, height, and that long hair, even at this distance. On the ground by him was a still body.

When close enough, Haytham dismounted, leaving Boy behind as he approached the two. "Connor. I'd begun to make a twig coffin."

Connor closed the distance between them and held out a hand. In it was a small leather-bound book. "This has important information in it. They left him up here, waiting for them. They must have heard our horses and come to investigate."

Haytham accepted the book, unsure why he was being trusted with it, if it was really all that. Then again, Connor hadn't said anything about the letters he'd scavenged from their last victims either. "We'll keep this close, and examine it thoroughly once we stop for camp."

"No camp," Connor shook his head. "The river is just ahead. If we cross it tonight, and press on, we can reach them by dawn."

Haytham longed to argue. His body ached from their earlier fight, and traveling by night in winter was not a prospect he enjoyed. But he knew it had its benefits. They were far less likely to encounter large patrols, or even suspicious civilians. And the sooner they reached their destination, the sooner the militia could get back on their feet. 

He still didn't particularly care for their effort, or the crown's, for that matter. He only backed the crown because it seemed the most likely to win, and the quicker there was an end, the quicker order could be restored. But this particular battalion of rebels were needed. For they would be, if strengthened with good diet, the agents that convinced Washington to show himself and wage battle. Besides, sitting in their camp a while could only bring more "important information" for the Templar Order.

"We press on, then. The cart is still in the clearing," he gestured behind them. "We'd best hurry."

"You left it unguarded?" Connor seemed to realize for the first time. "Haytham!" He stepped forward, shoved the Templar, the action more rude than harmful, though it did land against bruisings from their earlier scrap.

Haytham reached out, taking hold of his wrists, shaking them. "We need to hurry. You can harp on me later." But he didn't let go. Neither did Connor struggle against the hold. Interesting. Earlier on the cart, Haytham had only sensed awkward uncertainty. But here there was tension. Fuel for otherwise worthless kindling.

He leaned closer, able to feel Connor's hot breath on his face. He moved his arms outward, making room for his body as he pressed inward. Connor woke up at that, jumping back with a cry of outrage. "What are you doing!?"

Haytham just smiled. He should have asked that when the moment first began to linger. Instead, the boy waited until saying nothing would incriminate him equally. The curiosity was even. He turned away to retrieve his horse.


	7. Applying Pressure

They arrived at the river when the moon was nearly at its highest. It had been slow going, due to injuries Connor had not let on to until it was impossible to deny them. Haytham had wanted to insist on stopping, binding his wounds and cleaning them, but Connor had built an icy wall between them after his little stunt. He'd met friendlier executioners.

The moon was bright enough that they could see fairly well as it reflected off the snow below. The snow created a smooth blanket across the water, uninterrupted except for occasional animal trails. The bridge that the road led to was perhaps ten kilometers downstream from them. From here they would cut to the encampment exclusively through forest.

Connor lowered himself to the ground under the shelter of a tall hemlock, which had prevented as much snow from layering. It was the first time they had paused since retrieving the cart. Now the horses and cart stood by the river's edge, and the horses hung their heads sleepily. Haytham examined the icy bridge before them a moment longer before turning to sit beside his son. "What was that about making it by dawn?" he quipped.

"We still will," Connor said, voice strained by over-exertion combined with breathing in cold air all day.

"You know," Haytham said, "I'm not entirely unfamiliar with this area myself. I don't think we'll make it. It's a long stretch from here to the point you described." He leaned back against the tree's trunk, picking at its stripping grey bark. 

He could tell Connor was irritated, but he saw the sense, it seemed, for he didn't argue further. Instead, he asked again, "Why are you helping me?"

"We have common interests for the moment, as I've explained multiple times," Haytham said calmly. It didn't matter how many times Connor asked, that was all he would get for answer.

"Why not find someone else with connections? You know . . . who is not an Assassin?" His second remark was laced with sarcasm.

Haytham knew that a great deal of his interest in this boy was that he was his. His son. But that wasn't the exclusive reason he wanted to work with him. Connor was clever, strong, and malleable. That was what set him apart from the crowd: he was honest and naive to so much. Unlike most of the Assassins Haytham had crossed paths with or heard tell of, Connor was not a lost cause. He still listened attentively to other perspectives, and even so early as this, Haytham recognized transformation. The boy could be shaped, with patience and a firm hand.

"You are the first Assassin I've encountered who occasionally listens to reason," he offered finally. "I believe that we can learn from one another, to the great benefit of both." 

Connor narrowed his eyes at him, and Haytham knew his words were out of place. In the last few days, he'd found it difficult to keep up his usual barrage of comebacks and one-liners. What had happened with Charles had left him wounded, limping through social interactions at half-pace. Worse yet, in a twist of irony, the treachery of his greatest friend seemed to have brought to the forefront of his mind an unrelenting need to open his defenses. Lie less, confide more. It disgusted him. He had rebounded from the shit with Charles by reenacting what had brought them together to begin with with a new man -- this one far more dangerous, if his observations thus far were any evidence.

"You believe you can benefit. From things I can teach you." Connor spoke at last, and, to Haytham's surprise, he smiled, a playfully mocking smirk. "Wasn't it just last week you were yelling that I was incapable of the smallest tasks?"

"Yes, well. A lot can happen in a week," Haytham grumbled. "Now, are we going to sit here in the snow freezing our asses off, or are we going to cross this river?"

"No." Connor's brow creased as he thought over his next words. Haytham stood, waiting impatiently.

"You are right. I do not think we will make it. Not tonight. I need to lie down. I have. . . I've been bleeding."

Haytham immediately crouched beside the younger man, looking for injuries. "Where? Show me."

Connor reluctantly removed his outer coat, laying it on the ground beside them. "Make a fire, in the trees there, away from the open. I will come in a moment."

Haytham nodded agreement and headed into the trees, searching for dry twigs. It took a while to find anything useful, but there were a few small dead branches to be found that had mostly been sheltered by those above them. Adding what he had for kindling from his pack, he was sure he could create enough of a fire to nurse.

When Connor limped over, Haytham drew in a sharp breath. He no longer needed to ask where the injuries were. He was holding a hand to his side, but red was staining through his shirt. 

Connor stopped moving and looked at him a second in the gloom. "Get the cart, bring them into the woods too. Then we can fix this."

It didn't take long to retrieve the cart once again. When Haytham and the horses came back, Connor had laid his coat out by the fire and was sitting on it. His shirt had been removed too, the stained green cotton discarded carelessly close to the flames. His back was to Haytham, and the Templar paused to admire as his muscles glistened in the firelight. He coughed and came closer.

The boy had a deep gash in his side, jagged and messy; no doubt from a bayonet. He had apparently used a scrap from one of the soldier's jackets in an attempt to slow the bleeding, but it was a poor job, and there were trails of dried blood running down his stomach and side.

"Lie back, Connor. That's very bad. Why the devil did you let us go so far with that bleeding away?" Haytham's frustration was evident in his tone, and he tried to quiet it, but his heart raced. That was an awful, awful lot of blood. The skin all around the wound was darkened. "Shit," he breathed.

Connor leaned back, obedient for once, and sighed, his breath billowing upward. He was shivering, and Haytham was acutely aware of his tense muscles, goose-pimpled skin, and hard nipples. He knelt beside the boy and set his pack down, searching through it for strips of bandage. Then he removed a pot and began filling it with clean snow.

"Maybe you should go ahead, take the cart tonight. . ." Connor murmured, wincing and coughing. He closed his eyes, breathing shallowly. 

"Maybe you should be still," Haytham ordered, setting the pot of snow against the fire. It melted relatively quickly, and he tested the temperature with an index finger. It was fine. He took one of the bandage strips and dipped it in the water. "I can't believe we made it this far," he said, eying Connor's wound. "You're lucky to be alive."

His son didn't answer, and as Haytham began dabbing at the wound, he didn't flinch either. He was either going into shock, or falling asleep. He searched in the pack briefly again, retrieving a small bottle of ale, which he poured liberally into the cut. Initially, more blood, and thinner, poured from it, but it slowed, and Haytham quickly applied a large bandage, pressing down as hard as he dared. "Connor?" He checked.

"Hm," was all the answer he got.

"You're going to be alright, Connor. I need you to try to stay awake." He put his free hand on the Assassin's chest, counting his heartbeats. They were slow. Very slow. He kneaded his fingers into the smooth skin over his sternum for a second, trying to keep him grounded. There was no response. "Stay awake," he repeated, setting about fastening the bandage into place. He had to lift Connor a bit to loop one around his waist for counterbalance, and he felt heavy as a bear, all muscle and sinew.

Finally, Haytham removed his own coat, spreading it over his son's body, tucking it right up under his chin. He hesitated, and, on impulse, placed a hand on Connor's cheek, feeling the prickly stubble along his jaw. He had never seen any of Ziio's people with facial hair, but was unsure if this was due to removal or an inability to grow it. Regardless, Connor seemed to stray from them in this way too. It pleased him strangely.

"You and I will bring order and peace both, Connor Kenway. I have no doubt."


	8. Swallowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAUTION: contains rape / non-con sex and a lot of degrading talk.

_Bridewell Prison, in the recent past_

_\----_

"Lord, Charles wasn't lying about you," Thomas breathed, licking his lips. "Perfect combination. You can see the mum in the eyes," he grinned as the Assassin glared up at him from the floor, his deep brown eyes flaming with murderous intent. "And those cheekbones, you could cut a man with those." He lifted one booted foot to brush the toe lightly over the man's face.

Just inside the now closed doorway, Charles leaned against the wall, and when Thomas glanced back at him, a smirk formed on his lips. "I should have known you wouldn't hold out on me," Thomas said appreciatively.

"What can I say, watching you play is a treat, and I can't think of anyone I'd rather have it be with."

Connor struggled against the ropes that Thomas had secured his hands and feet with, and, failing progress there, he tried rolling against Thomas' legs to jolt him.

"Oh, sorry. Here, let's give you a bit more room to move," Thomas said indulgently, and crouched down to pat Connor's head, sinking fingers into his thick black hair. "Hmm, yes, best of both worlds," he sneered.

Connor bit at the filthy gag Thomas had put in, champing at it like a racehorse. He was absolutely flawless. Thomas moved to remove the gag, pulling him into a kneeling position as he stood again. The gag fell to hang around his neck, and he smiled privately at the imagery, considering tomorrow's plans.

"Why not just kill me?" Connor demanded, his voice raspy and dry.

Thomas laughed. "Oh, don't worry sweetheart, we will, in a manner of speaking. But we've got all night to play first." He reached for his trousers and slid them down. Connor tried to lean away but Thomas held fast to his fistful of hair, yanking him forward. "Come on now, love, don't be that way."

In the corner, Charles was silent, but his eyes were fixed on the two men as Connor's face was pulled between Thomas' legs. Thomas kneaded at the roots of his hair soothingly as he held his cock with the other hand, already hardening.

Connor's head pushed back against his hold stubbornly, and Thomas was briefly reminded of trying to lead a donkey. "Don't get any stupid ideas, now. You can't get out, and you can't fight." He drew back his free fist, backhanding the boy in the jaw. Connor lurched, and Thomas laughed, landing another hit. "Your best way of walking out of here tomorrow--" he stopped, amused at his own words. "Of walking at _all_ , is to cooperate. Give over."

Connor resisted for a moment more, stiff-necked, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth from where he'd likely bitten his lip or cheek. Then, suddenly, he stopped giving pushback, and was quickly shoved into place, overbalancing.Thomas quickly righted him, then regained his hold in the man's hair, ensuring he stayed close. "Start licking, bitch," Thomas growled.

Connor's head swayed under his hand for a moment, making Thomas unsure, but then he steadied, and leaned forward freely. His lips pressed against Thomas' cock, and the Templar groaned, excitement for what would follow hardening him still more. "That's it, come on."

Thomas was aware of Charles slinking closer, by his shoulder, to see better. Connor closed his lips gingerly around Thomas' cock and then, giving a burst of pleasure, he offered the tiniest lapping of the tongue. Thomas groaned, leaning back against Charles as the other Templar stepped behind him, pressing against him in all the right ways.

Charles murmured in his ear throatily, "You can easily see who his father is from the lips."

Thomas' dick twitched at the thought and he practically purred as he thrust forward and was met with compliance. Connor opened his mouth wider, and though his teeth grazed Thomas occasionally, it was clear he had decided against intentional biting. That was a very wise choice, and resolved the one concern Thomas had been entertaining.

Connor began moving more rhythmically now, seeming to embrace his situation fully, and equally fully taking Thomas into his mouth. His cock hit against Connor's throat as the Assassin bobbed.

"Fuck, that's it, sweetheart," Thomas gasped. There was no doubt, he had a good mouth on him. "Taking so much, damn."

Thomas felt Charles hardening behind him, cock against his ass, and his eyes rolled back as Connor swirled his tongue over and over along his tip. Connor was making small noises of what could only be interpreted as desperation, and Thomas nearly came at the first whine. But he held it together a few moments longer, enjoying the victory. Connor Kenway was no more than a common whore. He'd thought he would need to pin him down, splayed wide with well-tied rope. This was much sweeter.

Connor was sucking and licking in earnest, diligently ministering in a way that suggested he enjoyed it. Confusion flickered in Thomas' mind, at the quick turnaround from indignant victim to desperate participant. Then, fleeting and unbidden thought of Haytham arose. What he would think, what he would DO, if he knew. It pushed Thomas over the edge, and hot seed spilled into Connor's mouth, coating his tongue and trickling from his lips as he pulled back. Thomas allowed him to shift away as he himself fell back hard into Charles, giving him deadweight. "Fuck," he said again. Connor was blinking against watering eyes, and swallowing, before straining to wipe his chin on his naked whiskey-gold shoulder.

After a few moments of recovery, during which Thomas panted and rocked his ass against Charles' erection, and Connor leaned back against the wall where he'd scrambled to and shook, the two Templars moved. Thomas pulled his pants back up, laughing quietly. "You know, this bitch's mouth is so sweet, I'm half liable to steal him 'stead of hang him."

"One could wish," Charles chuckled, ruffling Thomas' hair into a mess he'd have to fix shortly. "It's not over yet, though. I think it's my turn now, yes?"

Thomas raised an eyebrow. It was only fair. But the Assassin had behaved far better than expected for him. He partially felt that he should be rewarded for the good effort. But perhaps the two things didn't need to be mutually exclusive? "Alright, but go easy. . . He's been a good dog."

Charles looked at him skeptically for a split second, but then shook his head and approached the sitting prisoner, who pressed himself back against the wall, eyes wide. "Stay back," he said, tone unreadable. Then, more strained, "Get away."

"Scared?" Charles purred. "Understandable. But don't worry, boy, Thomas is very right. You've done well." He knelt down and Thomas watched uncertainly as Charles untied the ropes binding Connor's feet together. The Templar discarded the ropes and instructed Connor to lie out on the floor, on his back.

The Assassin didn't move. Didn't even blink. Just stared at Charles, eye to eye, a grim expression on his lips. Thomas could tell he was seriously considering kicking Charles in the balls.

"Uh, Charles," Thomas stepped in, placing a hand on his companion's shoulder. "We don't have much time. I. . . I think we'd best go."

"Not a chance," Charles scoffed. "Why should you have all the fun? We can't come back another time, after all."

Connor watched the two talk but wisely stayed silent. Thomas noticed he mainly kept his eyes on him, features blank of any emotion.

"Look, he's done good," Thomas argued, unsure of his own motives. He only knew that those brown eyes were watching intently, and that that sweet mouth didn't deserve the screams it'd utter if things continued. However much Charles pretended to agree about being gentle, and asking nicely for cooperation, when such kindnesses were earned, Thomas knew that it wouldn't take much reluctance on Connor's part for things to turn very, very ugly.

"I thought we'd have to fight him, make this bloody," Thomas continued as Charles rounded on him, anger rising in his cheeks. It was too late now, he had to see this speech through. "He gave in, Charles. Isn't that good enough for you to touch to later tonight? He's been a good whore. No need to split him."

"You agreed. You got your share," he shoved at Thomas, "so piss off. Now you want to go, since you've had your fun? I don't think so."

Thomas swallowed, unwilling to push further. Whatever strange feeling had come over him, it was passing, and not worth pursuit with Charles in a mood like this.

Charles was shoving Connor on his belly on the stone floor, yanking at his clothing as Connor thrashed and yelled. Thomas darted to his shoulder, knelt down, put a firm hand on his back. "Connor, listen. Connor, you've got to shut up, you prat. Keep quiet, or it'll end badly for us all."

Connor quieted, his breathing swift and tremoring, and he turned his head sideways, cheek resting in the dirt as Charles knelt on his lower back, holding him in place. "Just remember that I will be your death, Charles Lee," Connor snarled. "And if you would rather it be painless, I would atone, not do further damage."

Thomas clenched his jaw and tried to keep from letting his distress show. Something about this plan had gone terribly wrong. Because this was exactly what he'd expected from the start, and yet somewhere in the middle of executing the plan, he had stopped wanting this. Connor's fury and fear were palpable in the air, and Thomas felt sickened.

Charles was laughing, that mocking chuckle he did, and saying something, no doubt very witty, in response, but Thomas didn't hear. He only heard ringing bells and roaring waves in his ears as his vision blanked momentarily. "Take me, Charles."

Things pulled back into focus, sharp and dim. Connor was wincing, and Thomas suspected Charles had hit him. Meanwhile Charles was staring at him, eyebrow quirked. "Come again?" he said.

"We need to leave. His bloody yelling, and all the time we've taken. . . we'll get caught tighter than even you can twist us out of," Thomas insisted, knowing full well they had plenty of time. He'd ensured it himself. "I know it's too late, you're already worked up. So take me. We'll go back and you can have me as you like."

Both other men seemed stunned into silence at this offering. Connor's pupils were enlarged, reminding Thomas of a hunting cat, and Charles was slowly beginning to smile. He climbed off of Connor, erection blatant. "Very well, Thomas. If you insist."

"Oh, I do," Thomas said, jutting his jaw out in a show of confidence. "Only hurry."

After a few minor jabs, a kick, and some taunting, Charles and Thomas exited the cell, and Charles locked up behind them. "You are going to pay dearly for robbing me of this," he said softly.

Thomas swallowed, feeling suddenly faint, but forced himself to put one foot in front of the other as they headed for the exit. "As you like," he said again, grimacing as his voice shook.

 

 


	9. A Coat by Any Other Color

Haytham sat by Connor for hours, building up the fire when it faltered, checking the boy's bandage, and reading. He ran fingers over the smooth cover of the small journal Connor had retrieved. The firelight was not ideal reading light, but it did the job. So far, the book seemed to be a personal account of each day, beginning several months earlier. There were no military plans mentioned, or anything damning at all for that matter. Mainly, the owner had recorded what he ate each day, what the weather was like, and if he saw anything of interest. Haytham certainly didn't.

It was perhaps after an hour or more of lazy skim-reading that he noticed something worth having recorded. "We should connect by December 3rd," the author wrote, "And from there, it is onward to the sea."

It was vague, but he had slipped up all the same. Haytham dog-eared the page and set the book beside Connor's still form. The Assassin's breathing had leveled out to something less worrying, and his eyelids flickered now and again when the fire crackled.

Haytham reached into the pocket of his coat, which he'd laid over Connor, and fished around for the letters from earlier. As he dug, his fingers hit something else; he knew immediately what it was, and removed the small trinket. It was a smooth, polished carving: a wooden figurine of a horse and rider, wheat-stalk thin legs and carefully rounded muzzle and flank of the horse complimented by ornately etched features on the tiny rider's face.

He held the toy in his hands, turning it this way and that, running fingertips over its polished surface. A half smile formed on his lips as he thought back to the day he'd made it. Since Ziio had gone home, he'd been rather dejected, and spent much of his spare time in the stables, grooming his horse, or upstairs in the inn, drinking ale and writing. When he heard that there were considerations, years later, to drive out Ziio's people, Haytham returned to these forlorn habits.

He had whittled miniature horses days on end, as he traveled here and there, doing his order's work. His heart wasn't in it at this time. His child, he imagined, was close to ten years old now. When he managed to carve a decent figure, he pocketed it to perfect later. When they went to negotiate with Ziio's people, he would get to see his son. He was certain.

Now he knew how naive he had allowed his thoughts to grow, believing his brothers would ever allow him to be part of that party. He was also keenly aware that they had intentionally prevented him from going -- Charles had prevented him -- to enable the attack and the burning of the village. He curled his fingers around the small figurine, and the sharp little tail and ears bit into his palm. The sudden impulse to hurl it into the fire surfaced. He was about to indulge his anger when Connor coughed.

"Welcome back," Haytham said, quickly setting the toy aside in the snow. "How do you feel?"

"I have had better days," Connor sighed. His voice sounded dry, so Haytham reached to retrieve the most recent batch of melted snow. "Here, drink a bit," he offered, moving to Connor's head to help hold him steady and support the pot.

Connor allowed Haytham to place a hand behind his head for stability, and reached weakly for the pot, one of his hands covered by Haytham's as the elder added more strength. "There we are," he said as Connor drank, coughing lightly between sips.

"It started so suddenly," Connor murmured, waving away the water at last. "I felt well enough earlier."

"And then you pushed your limits," Haytham scolded, keeping his hand behind Connor's head. "You lost a good deal of blood, but I think you'll pull through just fine."

"Good." Connor shifted to the side, just enough to remove contact with Haytham. "We need to leave at dawn."

Haytham pursed his lips, thinking of the reddened skin around the wound. Connor was staving off infection, but he didn't see them traveling just yet. Still, it wasn't as though they'd be walking. He glanced at the horses. They were both sleeping, but likely hungry. He should give them some of the grain from the cart. He shook his head to clear these thoughts, focusing on Connor again. "We'll see," he said noncommittally. 

The fire had died down considerably as the night wore on, and Haytham didn't expect to find much else flammable in the snow-drenched woods. He noted with alarm that Connor was shivering under his coat. The loss of blood surely wasn't helping him maintain body heat. Their plan for the morning could wait. Right now, his son needed warmth, and fast. He moved to lie down beside Connor, who scowled immediately.

"What are you doing?" He asked, trying to sit up and yelping with pain as his wound was strained.

Haytham pulled the coat away, shuffling under it, up against Connor, whose entire body was tensed, causing his shivering to shake him all the more. "You are freezing, Connor," Haytham murmured. "Let me help."

The Assassin didn't object further, clearly finding relief as his bare skin drank in the new heat. Haytham tried to avoid touching near his injury, curling an arm over his chest, which Connor started to complain about, but no words came out. He closed his mouth, a thin line of uncertainty, and they eyed each other for a second. Haytham, unnerved by the situation, turned his head away, resting his cheek on Connor's chest and pulling the coat over him almost completely. The absurdity of hiding under a coat did not escape him.

They lay in silence for approximately thirty seconds. Then Connor started in again. "I am fine. You should move."

Haytham didn't answer, listening instead to Connor's heartbeat, strong and increasing as the seconds passed. 

He felt Connor shift, reaching for something. He poked his head out of the coat, feeling nothing so much as a squirrel. "What are you doing?"

Connor had found the small figurine that Haytham had discarded. He plucked it from the snow and withdrew his arm back into the warmth, holding the figure closer for examination.

Haytham shifted up and to the side to give Connor more room now that he was warmer, but kept an arm over him. He waited for the Assassin to comment on his find, but he didn't. "It was meant for you," he explained at last. "When you were a boy. I wanted to meet you."

"It's you," Connor murmured, studying the tiny rider. The figure even had an etched coat like the one that lay over him now.

Haytham, flustered, stayed quiet, watching his sons dark eyes as they flickered in the firelight. 

"Is it still for me?" 

After a heartbeat, the Templar nodded. "Certainly, if you'd like it. It's just a scrap. I have no use for it." He thought of how many times he'd found it in his pocket, held it for comfort, as he looked toward the valley.

Connor curled his hand into a fist around it, holding it against his chest. As he began to doze off again, Haytham lay beside him, face buried against his shoulder, listening intently to his breathing. That infection wasn't going to go away on its own, and tomorrow would bring plenty of new challenges. But he was glad they'd stopped. Connor was alive, and would heal, with his care. He was safe and warm, and did not push away now. He found, to his surprise, that the idea of Connor keeping the figure he'd made so many years ago gave him as much comfort as having it himself.


	10. Reputation

By first light, Haytham had already fed the horses meager amounts of grain and put out the remaining embers of their fire. He woke Connor to change his bandage, and Connor could tell from the light in his eyes that he was pleased with the night's healing.

"You should take the horse, go ahead, tell them I'm coming," Connor decided. "I'll follow with the cart." He sat up stiffly, grimacing against the pain that shot through his nerves. He accepted a slice of cheese from Haytham, who crouched beside him now, bread, cheese, and water in hand.

"We'll go together. Knowing you're coming won't fill their bellies any sooner," Haytham argued. "Besides, I don't want you traveling alone injured like this."

Connor bit back a retort. The Templar had been acting very strange, but this new protectiveness, it perplexed him. It contrasted too much with his constant threats of murder only weeks before. Still, he didn't think it wise to reject the new attitude, as it helped more than harmed, and encouraging it could be useful in convincing the man to change causes. "If you think so," Connor acquiesced. 

Standing wasn't as hard as he'd worried it might be, and within a few minutes, the horses were ready, and Connor and Haytham climbed aboard. Connor held the figurine Haytham had given him in the palm of one hand, resting on his lap, as Haytham directed the cart out of the forest line and into the deeper snow beyond. With dismay, Connor noted that even now more snow was falling, in large, lazy spiraling flakes. 

"Across we go," Haytham said, the doubt in his voice obvious. He glanced at Connor, who nodded encouragement.

"It is safe, and saves a good deal of time. Hurry."

The cart trundled to the river's bank, and slowly plodded onward, over the ice. The horses snorted, straining against the heavy snow. "Maybe you should get out and push," Connor jabbed half-heartedly.

Haytham shook his head, not in the mood, it seemed, for banter. "We may have to if they don't pick up." The horses were holding their own, but the ground sloped upward across the river, and Connor doubted they would make the incline.

Snow was collecting in his hair, so he pulled his hood up, shivering. The brim of Haytham's hat was lined with the sticky flakes. "We'll make it," Connor insisted, as if somehow his words would make it so.

Haytham rolled the reins over the horses, urging them on, and they picked up pace, moving steadily towards the other side now. One wheel of the cart caught on what must have been a rock or log, and they lurched, but moved on. 

"I read some of that book last night," Haytham said. "I didn't see anything particularly useful."

"It is not the words that are written there," Connor explained, thinking of the various documents he'd seen in Washington's camp. "It is the hand they are in."

"The handwriting?" Haytham questioned. "You recognize it?"

"That man was with the redcoats, yet he has written letters to Washington saying otherwise," Connor said. As they reached the far bank, he started to climb down from the cart. 

Haytham reached a hand out to his knee, stopping him. "I'll push. You should stay seated."

"It will be lighter without me," Connor argued, and, without waiting for a counterargument, he jumped from the cart, a small gasp escaping him at the impact. His side felt like someone was holding a lit torch to it, and he shook as he straightened up from the jump.

Haytham followed suit, much more gracefully, and moved to the back of the cart. "Lead the horses?" He suggested, his voice cheerful and his eyes bright. Connor had no idea why he was enjoying himself, but he agreed, and headed to the front.

He gave Freyja a comforting pat on the flank as he approached, and was pleasantly surprised to find that once they began pushing and pulling in earnest, the cart moved with little resistance. They made it to the peak, and from there, the trees were scattered far apart, just as Connor remembered. Their branches still offered some shelter from the snow, which made it shallower ahead. Perfect.

Haytham was clearly equally pleased, as he jogged to the front to give Connor a pat on the back that lurched him forward. He laughed lightly, and stood a moment, admiring their work. "The rest should be simple."

Connor nodded, uncomfortable voicing confidence. It tended to lead to mishaps.

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully however, just as Haytham had predicted, and they arrived outside the encampment at mid-day. 

"Maybe you shouldn't come into camp," Connor suggested. He knew already that Haytham would disagree, but worry that he would be recognized was only natural. The man was not popular with the sons of liberty. He said as much.

"Let them remember me for something new, then," Haytham argued. "They cannot take issue with our current task. I helped as much as you in this journey." He glared at Connor, daring him to deny it.

Connor couldn't. He held up a hand in surrender. He still had misgivings about the Templar, but he had to admit he had been an invaluable asset on this trip, and had proved loyal more than enough. He could have taken the cart and turned back when Connor was attacked, but instead he tracked him down, treated his wounds, warmed him by the fire. "As you say," he consented. "Give them better reason to remember your name."


	11. Sutures

Things for Connor had taken a worse. The boy had lain quietly, feverish and anxious, in the most secluded tent the militia could offer. One of the men announced he had medical experience and Haytham had left Connor in his care. A nervous twinge ran through him as Connor passed from his arms to the stranger's, but he allowed it. Now, one morning later, the boy was tossing and turning, rasping with every breath, and wouldn't eat.

The men in the camp eyed Haytham with distrust, and few of them would speak with him, though the commander acknowledged his aid in the convoy's journey with grudging respect. He offered Haytham shelter and food, which the Templar gladly accepted. The wind had been picking up, especially that first evening, and it cut through his coat bitterly.

Haytham could barely get in to check on Connor, so hostile was the medic. But he eventually gave in, enough for Haytham to witness his son's decline. This morning, he sat on the cot next to Connor's, dabbing a damp cloth along his brow. He had treated the wound as well as he could on the road, but he knew it had been shoddy. Without proper medicine, things could only worsen.

"Got some pounded herbs," the medic said quietly, so as not to disturb his patient. "Can start packing that inside, 'stead of these rags. Will keep the bleeding under control, and might help the infection besides."

"Might?" Haytham asked, not looking away from his son.

"I've got to be honest with you, Mr. Kenway. This is not a likely heal. He's as likely to pass in the night as get up again."

After that, he was shown out and disallowed to reenter until mid afternoon. During the time outside, he tried to listen in for anything useful around the camp, but most of the talk was about the cold, or celebrating the fresh food they'd been brought. Haytham himself enjoyed very little food, stomach knotted with unrest over his son's fate.

He found himself wandering toward the horses, hitched along a post in the meager shelter of a tall hemlock. Boy was on the end, pestering a strange horse that looked about ready to bite his ear off. Haytham walked past his own horse, to the middle, where Freyja was tethered between two geldings that looked half-dead, skinny and down-trodden.

"Hey, girl," Haytham greeted her, coming around the post to pet her muzzle. She nickered quietly in return. They stood together for several minutes, with Haytham stroking her neck, picking tangles from her shaggy orange mane, and rubbing smudges of dirt from the white blaze on her brow. "Your boy's doing just fine," he said after a while. Another time, he would have given a horse as much attention as a chamberpot, but this mare was different. She was Connor's, and he loved her. By proxy, Haytham found himself needing to reassure the uncertain beast too.

Freyja pawed at the snow, and whinnied a complaint as one of the geldings beside her bumped her in the shoulder. Her ears were back and Haytham chuckled quietly. "You're as opposed to touch as your owner, I see. At least," he reached out, rubbing small circles along her forehead and between her ears, "from strangers. Hm?"

When he returned to Connor's tent, he was in considerably better spirits. Unfortunately, Connor was not. The Assassin was halfway sitting up, but his eyes showed his exhaustion. He was in the middle of chewing out the medic, who looked equally angry, when Haytham entered. 

"You need to leave me." Connor flinched with pain as he pulled himself upright, half-pulling his thick wool blanket aside as if making to stand.

"Connor," Haytham interjected. "What is the meaning of this?"

Connor turned his head, eying Haytham. His expression was hard to read. "This man is about as useful as a doctor as a carpenter would be."

"Here now." Haytham blinked, looking to the medic. "What's gone wrong?"

The medic, fists balled at his sides, shook his head repeatedly. "This idiot won't let me sew him up. If I don't, it's death by morning. Won't hardly let me near him, can't even change his dressing without him snarling at me like some feral animal."

The wording made Haytham grit his teeth. It was clear that, whatever the skills this man might have, he had little respect for Connor, and that his son didn't want the treatment. But fear whispered in his mind. If they didn't stitch him up, it wouldn't be good. "Give me the supplies, I'll do it myself," he decided. He glanced at Connor for any sign of disapproval with this compromise, but the Assassin said nothing.

The medic offered little argument, clearly fed up with his patient's stubbornness. "Fine. This boy's done us a good service, I'll warrant, but damned if he'll let us return one. Don't blame me when he's in an eternity box."

"Thank you for your service," Haytham murmured as the man left, still muttering to himself. 

Connor only glared at him as he stepped further into the tent, pulling the second cot close and sitting down. "Now then, Connor. What's the matter with you?"

His son offered no explanation, sitting cross-armed and defiant.

Haytham located the needle and cord the medic had been preparing to use, and sterilized them, glad that the camp had a decent amount of medical supplies at hand. "You're not afraid of needles, are you?" He joked.

Connor scowled deeper.

"Are we refusing to speak?" Haytham raised an eyebrow, scooting still closer to examine the wound. The medic had done as he'd proposed, packing dried, crushed herbs of some sort in the gash. The bleeding was indeed under control, but the flesh around the wound was risen, dark and angry. 

"It's infected," Connor spoke at last. "If you stitch it now, it will not heal. It needs burdock."

Burdock? Yes, that was supposed to help with circulation and cleansing. But it was the dead of winter, which Haytham promptly reminded Connor of. "This won't heal you, but it's the best we can do," he coaxed, feeling more like the boy's father now than ever. "Let me help." The words were growing familiar, and he remembered briefly the night by the fire, their bodies pressed together, hot skin under his hands.

He had originally intended to leave as soon as he was sure Connor would make a full recovery. But as time dragged on, he grew less and less sure that would become certain at all. Especially if Connor was so adverse to medical assistance. Haytham thought about Freyja, indignant toward the strange horse's curious nuzzling. "Is it because you don't know him? That you don't want him helping?"

Connor looked so vulnerable, lying there in the cold, bumps rising on his arms from the winter air, eyes dark and suspicious. He swallowed, as if he wanted to speak but couldn't.

Haytham wanted to offer some sort of consolation, but was unsure what he was supposed to be comforting Connor about. Besides, it wasn't his nature to give kind words. He was very poor at it. Instead, he said simply, "Hold still and I'll begin."

Connor obliged, lying almost deathly still, eyes trained on his father's hands as Haytham made the first prick. He tried to draw the stitches together slowly, though his hands were shaking and he was anxious to be done. He didn't want to hurt Connor more than necessary, or do a poor job and have them come loose later.

Haytham was thankful for the distraction of meticulous hands-on work, which kept him from looking too much at Connor stretched out before him, shirtless and in pain. Darker parts of him drank in the image, while the man he was hurtling towards becoming drew determined stitch after stitch into place, brow furrowed with concern. 

Somewhere during his messy last few weeks with this Assassin, he had stopped recognizing himself. Where before a good ale and the company of Charles by evening's lamplight was all he needed to be content, now the only comfort he drew on in the cold dark was that despite Connor's rejection of the medic, he trusted Haytham to do the same job. The fact was bizarre, and yet it gave him the same joy of victory as any long-pursued kill.


	12. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to disclaim here briefly, that the thoughts / feelings of Haytham and Connor, and their reactions to one another are not indicative of my own. I'm going for realism and staying in character as much as I possibly can, considering.

_Connor struggled against the weight above him, pressing him into the ground. No matter how much he strained, he couldn't break the iron-strong grip that pinned him. He could hear Charles Lee laughing above him, and Haytham joining in._

_Thomas leaned down in front of him, looking him in the eye. "Just hold still."_  
  
He awoke fighting for breath, as if he'd just run all the way from Boston. He was damp with sweat, and his head felt light, black clouding his vision in the lantern-lit tent. He realized with disgust that he had an erection, and, with equal horror, that Haytham was sitting beside him still, a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Nightmares?" Haytham offered helpfully.  
  
Connor concentrated on regulating his breathing, ignoring Haytham for the moment -- or trying to. He rearranged his blanket to hide as much of himself as possible. He hadn't had many dreams since that night in Bridewell, but they always left him scatter-brained and panicked. That was hard enough to deal with without being watched like a hawk for any sign of vulnerability.  
  
Haytham surprised him with the quietness of his next words. "We all have the occasional ghost run loose." But as quickly as it had surfaced, the moment ended with a clearing of his throat. "The trick is pressing on anyway."  
  
A smile flickered on Connor's lips. "Do you have ghosts? I thought killing never bothered you."  
  
"I never said that," Haytham said indignantly. "I said tomorrow was another day. We all have to face our actions. But the world won't stop for us while we do."  
  
Connor nodded, though Haytham's words weren't convincing. "The ghosts do not stop either. Killing them does not silence them."  
  
"And what ghosts are you facing tonight?" Haytham raised an eyebrow, but there didn't seem to be any judgment in his eyes.  
  
Connor questioned his companion's motives when he was uncharacteristically indulgent. But if there was a danger here, it was well concealed. "You will not want to hear it," he said at last. "He was a friend of yours." He shivered at the thought of Hickey and Haytham laughing and drinking together, as he knew they often had.  
  
Haytham leaned forward, interest rippling across his features for a split second before returning to a mask of neutrality. "I have very few true friends," he encouraged lightly.  
  
"And where does Thomas Hickey fall?" Connor asked. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, like someone else altogether.  
  
"I'd categorize him as dead." Haytham answered tonelessly.  
  
Connor blinked and said nothing more. How did he respond to that? It was hard to tell if Haytham was displeased or not when he insisted on smart remarks.  
  
All Connor knew was that he had killed the man who'd called Charles Lee off. The man who'd, on some level, rescued him. He should feel justified, and only anger towards Thomas. Yet his thoughts were jumbled, a mixture of guilt and disgust, with no clear target to credit them to.  
  
"If you're worried I've taken it personally, there's really no need." Haytham slapped Connor's shoulder, jolting him. "Thomas was a shameless heart-breaker, frequent drunkard, and an insufferable quarreler. I can't imagine his driving your would-be hanging forward helped relations any either. If you hadn't done it, someone else would have. Not good at keeping friends, that one."  
  
When Connor didn't answer, he felt Haytham's eyes boring into him. He was trying to process this new information. He suspected Haytham and Hickey hadn't been the very closest of friends, but he'd expected a bit more sentiment than this. Some half-hearted complaining, at least.  
  
Haytham gave a short, dry laugh. "You're not . . . actually agonizing over poor Thomas are you? I know you've got a bleeding heart, but this."  
  
"I am not 'agonizing,'" Connor muttered. His fingertips felt numb and he flexed his hands, trying to regain circulation. At least his untimely arousal was under control now. He pushed that from his mind, bile rising in his throat.  
  
"You look green," Haytham observed. "And that's a trick."  
  
Connor's ears were ringing and his mouth felt dry. He wanted this conversation to be over, but didn't feel able to offer any redirection subtle enough. Soldiering on, he said quietly: "Thomas Hickey left a deep impression. Killing him was not enough to clear it away."  
  
"Ah." Haytham removed the hand that had been resting on Connor's shoulder all this time, resting his chin on it instead, elbow on knee. "He made advances?"  
  
Haytham seemed amused by the idea, which didn't bode well. Connor closed his eyes, drawing in a steadying breath. "Did this happen often?"  
  
"You could say that." Haytham waggled an eyebrow. "The man was as eager for the attentions of one sex as the other, truth be told. I don't think anyone who knew him long went away unmolested."  
  
Connor stared. "How can you speak about it so lightly? His were criminal acts."  
  
"As are many of our own," Haytham pointed out. "I can hardly pick and choose which crimes I'll detest and which I encourage. He may have been. . . wayward with his affections, and an arrogant prick, but few were harmed, if any. He was a good swordsman, and friend, in his way. He had heart, buried under all . . . that."  
  
Connor felt like his lungs were being pulled out his throat. The world was spinning away from him. Why was he so upset? It was just sex. Haytham was right. It might be criminal, but it was hardly rare, and he didn't doubt that many more than let on participated in just the sort of thing he had. And he _had_ been a participant. He had even enjoyed it. Become aroused. The ringing in his ears grew louder, and he felt the cot shaking. No, he was shaking.  
  
"You're not saying anything came of it?" he heard Haytham asking. His voice was echoing against the ringing. Connor opened his mouth to answer but nothing came out.


	13. Desertion

After their bewildering conversation, during which Connor had completely shut down communication and been rather irritating, Haytham had directed attention to his need to return to Boston. He had been neglecting his work long enough, and caring for an injured Assassin wasn't an excuse he wanted to present for his fellows' consideration.  
  
He packed his things relatively quickly before checking in again with Connor, who was still unresponsive. Sighing in exasperation, Haytham had given up and gone for his horse. He reassured himself that his son was in friendly company, and would likely heal well. _Just in time to come looking for blood_. But he pushed this unhelpful follow-up thought down.  
  
The ride "home" was relatively uneventful. Alone and going at a good clip, he was able to avoid scrutiny. His status with local factions certainly helped there, as did the clearly high standing indicated by his clothing.  
  
For most of the journey, he managed to push Connor's strange behavior out of his mind. But now and then thoughts would creep in: jealous, twisting ivy that curled around his veins, making him restless and hot-blooded.  
  
What didn't make sense was why it troubled Connor so much. Thomas had always been flirtatious, reckless even. But it was a simple thing to reject. Sure, Connor wasn't known to discuss sexual subjects, but bringing it up in passing was no reason to lock down like that. Haytham's theory that Connor was an insufferable prude grew. He understood the discomfort, very well, but why not simply ignore the encounter? If he felt the need to talk about it, there must be underlying tension. This conclusion brought warmth to his face, despite the winter wind cutting at him. Perhaps Connor was so troubled because Thomas had been barking up the right tree.  
  
He entered the inn just as the moon began to peer over the rooftops. A warm fire blazed merrily in the back center, and a few patrons sat here and there, playing cards or telling stories. The comforting scent of ale prevailed. Haytham drank it in, relief flooding through him as he made for the stairwell that led to Charles.  
  
But their room was empty, save for the twin dogs, Prudence and Chastity, who were curled on the bed napping, their puffy black fur making them nothing so much as lifeless mink pelts. One of them lifted her head in the dim light pouring from the hallway, and woofed uncertainly.  
  
"It's only me," Haytham said, stepping inside and seeking out a candle. Once the room was lit, he closed the door. The dogs jumped down, stretching, and came to greet him. He gave them preoccupied pats on the head, but ignored them as they began jumping up against his legs. He crossed the room to the small desk in one corner. There was a note.  
  
In unnecessarily flowing script was written simply: "Back soon, unlike some."  
  
Unusually sardonic. Charles had a scathing enough attitude with outsiders, particularly ones with favorable conformation, but it was rarely directed at Haytham. Clearly he was not over their last conversation. "Lovely," he murmured, sitting down with a sigh.  
  
He knew he had been neglecting Charles of late. They had been thick as thieves in previous years. Previous months, even. But in recent times, Haytham found himself consumed with introspection. He had dedicated everything to the order, never having a moment to consider his own inner workings. Encountering Connor had opened the floodgates. Now he felt like he were drowning, unable to escape his own subconscious. He couldn't blame Charles for his frustration.  
  
"It must be nice." He glanced at the dogs, who were now curled at his feet on either side. "No one questions a dog's loyalty. Or pursuit of mates, for that matter." He scoffed, shoving the note off the desk.  
  
After a few minutes of moping, he decided there was no harm in going downstairs for a well-earned drink. Three ales later, he felt little better. Typically he avoided so much drink, but he was in no mood for temperance, and he held liquor well enough.  
  
Haytham was contemplating a fourth drink when the door opened. Charles strode in, looking weathered. It didn't take long for him to spot Haytham, and make for his table. His expression was difficult to read, particularly with the room blurring.  
  
Charles didn't say anything, but sat down beside him. He inventoried the empty cups on the table.  
  
"Welcome back," Haytham said, closing his eyes momentarily to bring things into focus again.  
  
"And to you," Charles replied. He put an arm around Haytham's shoulders, giving him a mild shaking. "Shall I get us more?"  
  
"Please." Haytham watched as he gathered up the empty cups and walked over to the counter. He wondered vaguely where Charles had been. If he'd been out on business or pleasure. But he knew it didn't matter, in the face of his own, much longer, absence.  
  
When Charles sat down again, ales in hand, he was smiling. "I had great success tonight, Haytham."  
  
"Oh?" Haytham asked, feeling drowsy despite his interest. He accepted his drink and sipped it tentatively, edging towards nausea. He hadn't eaten anything recently. That was the problem.  
  
"Yes, I shadowed a new recruit with a loose tongue." Charles drank deeply from his own ale, sighing with satisfaction. Then he turned his eyes on Haytham. "And you? What have you been doing all this time?"  
  
At the moment, there was no aggression in his voice, but Haytham suspected it was fast approaching. "Reconnaissance," he answered, putting on his best neutral mask. "Helped a convoy reach its destination. Took note of said destination. That sort of thing."  
  
"So much effort!" Charles joked. "Isn't that work for those of lower caliber?"  
  
Relief washed over him to see Charles in a decent mood and Haytham smiled sardonically. "It may be, but we're losing our chore boys left and right. With Thomas gone, I even have to wash my own linens."  
  
"Lies." Charles took a long swig. "We both know I've always done that."  
  
They sat companionably for some time, trading small talk about the cold, whose fingers had been more frozen, and if it was unkind to leave the dogs alone in a room all day. The talk shifted here and there, from the rioting in the square of late to the broken hand on the clock in the corner. It felt normal, and Haytham found himself relaxing. The comfortable safety of their friendship flickered strong and his doubts from the ride home melted away.  
  
It was during this warm quiet that Charles dropped the wall. "You're right, you know. I am jealous."  
  
Haytham raised an eyebrow, startled by the sudden shift. But he still sounded like the old Charles, honest and affectionate.  
  
"I cannot blame your anger for the death I had a hand in," Charles continued, choosing his words with obvious care. "But neither can I accept blame for what happened that day. The order was out, and I had sworn myself to obedience, as have you. I kept it from you only to spare you."  
  
Haytham listened through the fog of alcohol that clouded his brain. He knew there was truth to his lover's words, and yet anger boiled deep inside him still. "You could have spared her too."  
  
"They all knew the danger, and ignored our warnings. They chose their fate as much as we did." Frustration was evident in his voice now, but he reined it in with a long-suffering breath. "Haytham. . . I am trying to make reparations. Perhaps I could have acted differently, but I didn't. I did what I could in the hour. And I never wanted her hurt."  
  
"You hated her presence in my life," Haytham whispered, the words barely coherent. "She took me where you couldn't follow, and you resented it. Always."  
  
"I didn't kill her because of that, Haytham." Charles set his ale down hard against the table and a man nearer the middle of the room glanced at them nervously. Quieter, Charles continued, "I didn't know with any certainty that she was even down there during the fire. I did it in daylight, hoping many would be outside."  
  
Haytham gritted his teeth, staring into his ale to avoid Charles' demanding gaze. "You told me the order had been withdrawn. You lied to me." He looked up suddenly, pain stabbing in his chest. "To _me_ , Charles. I trusted you, of all men."  
  
Any indignance was gone now, replaced only with a wretched grimace as Charles glanced away from him. "How could I look at you and tell you what had been done, Haytham. What I did."  
  
Sympathy carefully restrained, Haytham shot back immediately. "The same way you are going to now, Charles. Connor told me something very interesting."  
  
Charles did not look at him, but he didn't have to for Haytham to know that, being put on the spot, he would like nothing more than to crawl into some dark hole to hide.

  
"Thomas was in a cell next to him for a time," Haytham said slowly, as though talking to a child. "And after that, taken elsewhere in Bridewell. Yet Connor tells me that at one time they shared a single cell, unwatched." He saw Charles shifting in his seat and pressed onward for the kill. "Now, how, Charles, did he get into Connor's cell?"  
  
No answer was forthcoming. Haytham stood, the ale making him sway momentarily. He grabbed hold of Charles' coat lapels, shaking him roughly. "Answer me, you lying shit." Jealousy and alcohol combined spectacularly, coloring his vision with red and sending searing-hot silver through his veins as his theory solidified, dark and sickening.  
  
Haytham was aware that they were being stared at, but it didn't matter. He wasn't staying here any longer than it took to extract the answer he already knew from his lover's lying lips. "You let him in. Let him corner Connor. Why would you do that?" he demanded.  
  
"You're drunk, Haytham," Charles spoke with steely coldness. "Sit down. I did no such thing."  
  
Haytham could feel the world shift beneath him as he stared, uncomprehending, at the man before him. There was no tangible proof that anything had happened, certainly nothing horrific, and yet he knew. Charles' constant defense, the contempt in his voice as he denied responsibility for Ziio's murder. For the murder of Connors friends, family, neighbors. The way he scoffed at Haytham's affection for Ziio, calling it unseemly, in the face of their own degenerated relationship.

Templars lied. Haytham lied constantly. But never to Charles. Not when it mattered. That was how it was always supposed to be. Them against the world.  
  
"Sit down," Charles said again, more loudly. "You're drawing attention."  
  
Haytham sat, the heat that had been flowing through him a moment ago now replaced with only numbness. Worries of manhood or sexual purity were not what had all but incapacitated his son. Connor might be uncomfortable with physicality, but all the same, whatever happened with Thomas, and he knew with as much certainty now as if Charles had detailed it himself that something _had_ happened, it had been  debilitating.  
  
Seething, Haytham spat each word: "Did Thomas attack Connor?"  
  
"You _are_ aware," Charles growled, "that the savage was in waiting for a hanging that _you_ approved. Why should it matter what happened meanwhile?"  
  
His mind was suddenly devoid. He was plunging downward in frigid ocean water, air dragged from his lungs, unable to move. His anger had been yanked from him, replaced with a rapidly growing nausea. He leaned over, losing a good deal of ale.  
  
Charles watched, silent beside him, until he was finished. "If you are determined to put this wedge between us, Haytham, I cannot stop you. Know only that I have always been at your side, and loved you throughout everything." He placed a hand on Haytham's back.  
  
"I know," Haytham said, his voice breaking in a way that made him want to hit something. How could he repair his loyalties, or instead discard them with any confidence, when he'd done so much damage to his own order _and_ the boy who enticed him to desert?


	14. Solace

Haytham lay beside Charles that night, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. Sleep evaded him, thoughts racing wildly, mixed with the beginnings of dreams before he'd jolt back into waking consciousness. The dogs snored quietly at the foot of the bed, and Charles slept soundly beside him, gentle breaths telling him it was genuine.  
  
Outside, all was quiet, except for the occasional clopping of hooves on cobblestone. The snow that had fallen unceasingly since Connor's injury had relented. Haytham closed his eyes for the thousandth time, willing himself to fall into the solace of unawareness. He yearned to take off into the night. Saddle his horse and race back into the wilderness. But he knew it was foolishness. His emotions were overruling him, scrambling the truth.  
  
He thought back to his early years, so far away, the edges of memory singed by time. The endless hours of training. The exhaustion, and the satisfaction that came hand in hand, knowing what he was becoming. The strength it had taken to rise every morning, the strength that came from the successes of the day before. All of that was absent now. He couldn't draw inward any longer to find comfort. There was only cold dread.  
  
As a young man, Haytham had been consumed by his convictions. He needed only look at the world around him to soldier on. He was so certain of his mission that all other needs fell away. He ate to stay strong, drank to unwind muscles tense from a day's work, and slept so he could wake again to fight. He needed no companionship outside his order, and only enjoyed socialization that led to results.  
  
Charles had dented that fortress of purpose. When they met, Charles was eager to learn, and eager to please. He'd offered Haytham any service he was capable of, and never complained. He'd treated Haytham with respect, and with friendship. Having someone who was both companion and conspirator was foreign and damning. He breathed it in like smoke, coating his lungs with this new world. Charles had been the beginning and end of his happiness.  
  
Haytham had found new reasons to rise in the morning, new reasons to drink. He had discovered so many pleasures previously ignored or disdained. Others in the order often enjoyed sex, excessive drink, shows, or games. But Haytham had always felt empty participating in such things before. Yet he happily pursued all with Charles by his side.  
  
But he had grown soft. He had believed that the happiness Charles brought him was equal with safety. That because he was a brother and friend, Charles could be trusted. He lost an important lesson from so long ago. Trust no one. And now he was paying in full for his rebellion. With Charles, he could enjoy the companionship and do his duty without feeling pulled in different directions. But his taste for affection, awakened and hungry, was not sated.  
  
Looking outside the order had never been his goal. But there she was: all the things he admired. Beauty, cunning, strength, courage, and honesty. In an order structured by carefully layered lies, to come across this rare woman was intoxicating. She had been guarded, just as he was, and the desperate need to reassure her stemmed from his own fears. He knew that, and yet proceeded, headlong. And so his downfall accelerated.  
  
It was, indeed, better not to succumb to affection at all. If he had not with Charles, he never would have gotten the scent for it. Now everything fell away in the face of his growing need for someone safe. Someone that wouldn't betray him. He lay there, hating himself for his weakness. His pathetic insecurities, leaking out into the open after all these years. How crazed must he be to seek solace in the enemy? How could he consider running from everything he'd built on, banking on the thin hope that an Assassin would greet him warmly.  
  
Sickened, he rolled on his side, staring into the gloom. Beside him Charles murmured something incoherent. If he had thought he could leave the room unnoticed, he would have gone for a walk to distract himself. As it was, the only thing he could do was lie there, plagued by his own mind.  
  
His eye caught his coat, lying on the wooden floor. He remembered the letters he'd taken on his trip with Connor, and never glanced at. He reached down, fished them out of their pocket, along with the little book. Connor hadn't asked for it back when he left. Maybe he'd been too out of it. Or forgotten. It seemed odd, if it was so important to him.  
  
Haytham replaced the book and settled back with the letters, trying to hold the top one at an angle that he could read from the thin beam of moonlight seeping through the small window above him. The words were small and faint, but he could make out enough.  
  


> _Dearest Ellen,_

>   
>  _I can hardly tell you the amount I've missed you. I still keep your pendant close. I like to believe that it gives me good fortune._  
>  _We may not return until early February as things are. I'm sorry for the disappointment, but there is no end to the troubles here._ _Keep me in your prayers, as I do you, and I shall be home before you know._  
> 

  
The letter went on, but Haytham dropped it to the floor. It wasn't helping his mood. Ellen would not see her man again. Haytham had seen to that. For the first time in years, he felt a brief pang of regret for the life taken.  
  
Though he often wished he'd done things differently, this rarely applied to killing. Now, in the dark, he thought of Ziio. He thought of Charles denying truths again and again. And he thought of Connor, wounded and cold. Tomorrow would be another day, but not one he wanted to face. What could it bring that was worthy?  
  
One of the dogs lifted its head drowsily. Haytham wondered which it was, and how Charles could tell them apart. The thought seemed silly in the midst of his brooding. He clutched the remaining letter tightly and swung his legs off the bed. He retrieved his shirt and coat quietly, putting on his boots by the door. He couldn't keep chasing after the Assassin like some lost dog. He knew his argument that following Connor being useful was weak at best. Any potential value there had been was at an end now. But he couldn't stay in this room any longer. So he would return to the comfort he should have sought first. The solace that never left. Without the Templar Order, he had nothing to live for. It was time to get ahold of his priorities, and return to duty.


	15. Onslaught

The days had passed agonizingly. Connor lay in his bed, stewing, waiting for his wound to heal, which proved about as interesting as watching dust settle. But he gained strength quicker than he had any right to expect, and finally the morning came that he shakily ventured out into the snow, melting now to leave candle-wax smoothness along the pathways, and mounted his horse for the long ride home.  
  
When he came home, Achilles was in the stables, grooming his prized stallion, Roman. He looked up long before Connor was close enough to say anything, and turned away from the horse.  
  
Connor dismounted and led Freyja over to the hitching post outside Roman's stall, greeting Achilles wearily.  
  
"Your trip took longer than expected," Achilles noted dryly.  
  
Connor shrugged, beginning to strip the tack from Freyja. "I ran into a few complications."  
  
Achilles tapped his shoulder with his cane. "You shouldn't be so reckless. After the gallows, I would think you'd have the sense to keep your head down."  
  
"I was acquitted," Connor protested. "And besides, the war will not wait for me." He ran his hand along Freyja's flank, noting that she was thinning. He would need to remember to give her extra grain tonight. She'd more than earned it with the convoy escapade.  
  
Connor himself wanted nothing more just then to collapse where he stood, or maybe crawl into the hay like he used to before Achilles accepted his presence at the manor. His side was burning and his legs tremored from the long ride. But he knew Achilles deserved more than a passing hello. "What news is there here?"  
  
Achilles thought for a moment, running a stiff-bristled brush along Roman's shoulder. "All is quiet. Too quiet, if you ask me." Then, his tone changing to one of obvious prodding: "Myriam asked after you."  
  
The injured huntress he'd helped months ago. Connor frowned. "Is something wrong?"  
  
This seemed to amuse Achilles, who stepped away from Roman and chuckled. "Not at all."  
  
Heat crept along Connor's neck as he realized the implication in Achilles' brown eyes. He led Freyja away to her stall, calling over his shoulder. "If she needs something, she will come back."  
  
"Connor!" Achilles called back.  
  
Connor closed Freyja's stall door behind her and turned around, walking back slowly. He came to stand in front of Achilles, sure he was about to be lectured, though he had no idea what the old man had decided he was doing wrong this time.  
  
"Don't forget to live," Achilles said, giving Connor a hard look. "The war won't wait, you're right. But the world will go on long after it's done. There's value in other parts of life to be found."  
  
His world-will-go-on speech reminded Connor of Haytham's indifference. He shook the thought aside. "Why does it matter now? Nothing will if the royalists succeed. If the Templars succeed."  
  
Achilles nodded. "You are an Assassin, yes, and you do yourself credit by your dedication. But you are also human, Connor."  
  
"Enough of this." Connor put up his hands. How could Achilles think of things so insignificant at a time like this? "I've made progress with Haytham Kenway. We need to discuss it."  
  
Immediately, Achilles' eyes darkened. He let out a tired sigh, and turned to walk towards the manor house, not looking to see if Connor followed.  
  
Reluctantly, Connor did. "I think you are wrong about him. He helped me several times. And more than once when he could have killed me, or left me for dead, he did not.  
  
"All that indicates," Achilles argued, picking up his pace, "is that he still finds use in you. And that you are yet naive to his intentions."  
  
Connor reached out, grabbing Achilles' shoulder. He pulled him around, shoved the edge of his coat out of the way, and pulled his shirt up to show him the injury. "Haytham stitched this," he told him. "He stayed in camp with me while I healed."  
  
Achilles eyed the wound apprehensively, scanning the handiwork. Then he looked up, catching Connor's eyes. "He stayed in the camp?"  
  
Connor nodded, confused at his interest.  
  
"You are blinder than I thought," Achilles scolded. "Kenway's care for your wound only shows that he has plans for his new pawn that are not realized. And allowing him free reign in the camp has likely damned those men."  
  
"No!" Connor backed away, anger rising at the old man's stubbornness. "He saved my life! And he is not a loyalist. He is a Templar. There is no reason for him to interfere with them."  
  
"The Templars back the strongest force," Achilles barked, "and at the moment, that happens to be our enemy. Do not think that because he is your father he is weak. He is cunning, and he has and will continue to use you so long as you remain ignorant."  
  
In the face of this onslaught, Connor had no defense. He knew there was some truth to it, perhaps all of it was true. But he couldn't believe that. It was too hard to bear the idea that there could never be peace. That the battle they fought now was meaningless, fated to repeat for eternity.  
  
But Achilles had not finished, clearly having stored ammunition for some time now. "He knows the location of their troops, he likely knows their current plans, and many new names and faces to report to the enemy." He waved his cane towards the road for emphasis. "Playing medic means nothing, nor does any seeming friendliness. He is a Templar and Templars lie."  
  
"Achilles, he-"  
  
"Enough!" Achilles began shambling toward the house again. "You have sold these men's lives with your foolishness."  
  
Connor stood still long after Achilles had gone inside, doubts tearing his mind apart, and guilt rising at the thought of all the ways Haytham could have sabotaged the soldiers. Explosives, poison, or simply revealing their location and weakness to the first royalist he met. As darkness began to gather, and the cold strengthened, he slunk to the stables. It seemed he would be sleeping in the hay after all.


	16. The Scout

Connor crouched low in the brush, eyes trained through a narrow gap in the ice-coated twigs. His white coat aided him significantly, but he knew the smallest motion was all it took to alert the soldiers below of his presence.

Redcoats milled about the ravine, barking rushed orders and hoisting guns over their shoulders. There were at least fifty, easily, in sight, and the rows of tents beyond suggested more. A formidable force. Especially added to the smaller, but well-fortified, troop that lined the cliff-face to the east. The royalists had moved through the surrounding area for a few days, but it was only now that Connor felt certain of their purpose here: if the two forces joined, they could within a day march on the rebel militia across the river.

Weeks had passed since Connor had brought their supplies, and no news had reached him of any misfortune following Haytham's presence in the camp. But he hadn't waited long enough. These armies were well supplied, well rested, and well informed. He had been less concerned until the group that now filled the ravine had altered route days ago, making a straight line for the river.

The plan had always been for the troops across the river to strengthen their numbers and resources to offer Washington the command post he needed from which to organize strikes. Keeping the gathering of forces secret until their numbers were sufficient was key. And clearly success was not theirs, whether because the soldiers had drawn too much attention or because their location had been revealed. Connor couldn't say which, but he could think it, and the thought weighed on his chest heavily.

He had been stupid. There was no kind way to look on his own actions now. He had known full well the dangers of talking with Haytham at all, let alone making him a traveling companion. Connor had no excuse for the trust he'd placed in the Templar. All he could think, feeling more and more wretched, was that the man was his father, and he had been weak.

He had tried to be stronger, since arguing with Achilles, and had done well with keeping his skills sharp, his ear to the ground for local trouble, and even with making some semblance of peace with his mentor. But all the atoning he might try was nothing now, staring into that ravine.

Connor shifted back slowly, creeping hand over foot until he was away from the edge. He stood then, jogging back to where Freyja waited. He needed to warn them.

 

\-------

 

Haytham looked up at the sound of thundering hooves. An orangeish horse carrying a white-coated rider raced toward them, and Captain Blake watched the approach anxiously beside him. Haytham, however, knew immediately who it was, and strode forward to meet the rider.

"Connor!" he called amiably.

The Assassin jumped down from Freyja's back, rage flashing in his eyes as he caught sight of Haytham. "Why are you here?!" Then, not waiting for an answer, he addressed Blake, who had hurried to join them. "Captain, your location is compromised." He glanced at Haytham, giving him a scathing glare.

Absorbing the scene that just flashed by, Haytham frowned slightly. Was he angry at Haytham for leaving so suddenly before? Or avoiding him so long after? Or was it that he was spending his time among Connor's allies without him there to supervise? So many possible reasons to be angry. He almost smiled, but the urgency of Connor's appearance held back any amusement.

Connor was explaining to the captain that he had seen a large group of soldiers in the ravine over the river, and more lining the cliffs. He was about to describe more when Blake held up a hand, shaking his head.

"Connor, it's alright. Connor! Mr. Kenway already informed us. We are making preparations."

Haytham nodded helpfully as Connor looked at him yet again. His eyes were wide, as if staring at a two-headed horse. "Mr. . . . Kenway. Told you?"

"Yes," Haytham explained calmly. "A scout spotted this camp a few days ago, though I only heard of it yesterday. I came as quickly as I could."

"But. . ." Connor's brow was furrowed as he looked from one man to the other. Then he let out a tired sigh, and nodded understanding. "I am glad you have had more warning then." But the line of his mouth still turned down slightly, just at the corner, betraying his doubt.

"Though informed already, you've done us yet another service in making the journey," Blake added. "Will you stay and help us see this through?"

Haytham raised an eyebrow. There was a lot about this situation that didn't make sense, but he was willing to wait to question Connor until a more private moment, should the Assassin deem the camp worthy of his time defending.

"Of course," Connor said quickly. "I will help wherever you most need me."

Haytham wandered closer to Freyja, letting her sniff his gloved hand. She snorted wearily and bumped his shoulder. "I'll take your horse to the post if you like," he offered.

Connor narrowed his eyes, but did not decline the offer. "I will walk with you. We should talk." He excused himself from Captain Blake, who let him know to come to his tent after for briefing, and then Haytham and Connor were alone with the horse. Haytham would have taken simple pleasure that his son wanted to speak with him, but he had a feeling this would not be a friendly chat.

While he had originally intended to give up the camp's location, it had proved unnecessary, due to a diligent scout and bad luck on the part of the rebels. Haytham had decided, at that juncture, that it was better to play the hero and revisit his friends over the river. But he had not expected to see Connor until the battle. Clearly the boy had been tracking loyalist forces with equal dedication.

As they walked, Connor spoke quietly, but there was menace in his tone. "A scout? You are claiming your actions to some unnamed scout?"

Haytham gave him a wounded look, despite the knowledge he was sure they shared of his previous plans. "I didn't know the scout by name, no. Charles told me, actually, about the finding. Lest your friends think I had been involved, I came in person with the message."

Connor did not reply as they reached the post, and he fastened Freyja's reins to it. There were fewer horses tied here as had been on their last visit. Some were being geared up for the impending battle, while others likely were in use on messenger runs for reinforcements.

"Connor," Haytham reached out uncertainly, laying a hand on the Assassin's shoulder. Connor tensed, but did not move away.

"I had nothing to do with this. Truly." He didn't like the thought, but the accidental discovery by the scout had come as a crushing relief, absolving him of the decision altogether, of whether or not to sell out the underdogs, and Connor's trust.

Connor studied his face, making the Templar vaguely uncomfortable, but there was no longer any aggression in his eyes. Instead, there was only concern. "I hope you are telling the truth," he said at last. "I gave too much trust."

Haytham had to agree there. The boy was naive, and any Assassin who willingly shared that much time with a Templar had to have a touch of madness -- not that it didn't extend in the other direction too. But Haytham had not betrayed that trust. Despite his intentions, he had not. And a part of him was proud of that, while the rest of him knew full well he would have if it had come to it. "Have I broken it?" he asked.

"I do not know. But from now on, I believe nothing without proof." Connor started to walk away, shrugging Haytham's hand from where it still rested on him.

Haytham curled his fingers into Connor's coat sleeve, tugging him back around. "Has something happened?" It was unlike Connor to so openly reject, as had been pointed out again and again with his tolerance for Haytham's less than favorable companionship. "Why now do you mistrust me? Surely your opinion should improve, not regress?"

"I woke up," Connor said coldly, and without any further explanation, he yanked away.

As he retreated, en route to Blake's tent, Haytham tried to push away images of the snow-coated day Ziio had sent him away. They crashed down on him unbidden, as they always seemed to when least needed. She had shoved him out of her life, a ghost of a time he could never revisit. Anguish filled his chest as he recalled her promise, that he would never know his son. He would not allow Connor to slip away so easily, to become an untouchable, unknowable ghost all his own, staring him down in times of darkness. Haytham would not be sent away again.


	17. Poisoned

The remainder of the day, which waned quickly, was spent in checking, and re-checking, weapons, constructing spiked barricades, rolling cannons into position, and strategics. By evening, the camp was completely transformed from the weeks ago that Connor came to them. Heavy, sharpened logs were buried in the snow to stave off advancing cavalry, and the tents now formed a tight circle in the center for one more night's wary sleep, which was to be taken in shifts while others looked on for the first sign of enemy approach.

Connor saw little of Haytham after their initial encounter: they passed here and there, carrying armfuls of weaponry or ammunition, or helping to pack or re-pitch tents. It wasn't until the time for food finally came that, hunger gnawing at his insides, Connor sat down beside the Templar. Men milled about, scooping hot stew into bowls -- meager portions, but met with grateful sighs, and murmuring anxiously about what tomorrow would bring. Some louder soldiers were telling stories or joking to lighten the mood, but the air carried fear throughout the camp resolutely.

Haytham sat on a small log by the large center fire, clutching a small bowl in cupped palms, warming his fingers while he waited for the food to cool. Connor joined him without a word, setting his own bowl in the shallow snow by his feet to help its own cooling pass quicker.

The men sat quietly for a time, Haytham now and then taking a sip from his bowl, Connor leaving his alone. While hungry, his stomach roiled thinking of the coming battle. Finally, he asked: "Why are you still here? You do not care for these men."

Haytham took his time in answering, picking out a piece of meat from the stew and chewing thoughtfully. "You're right," he said, "I don't. I stayed because I knew you would show up eventually."

"And why," Connor pressed, "does that matter? You care no more for me than any of the soldiers here."

A strange expression flickered across Haytham's face in the firelight before he replied. "I had weeks to relay their location, Connor. Do you really think I waited, doing nothing, that long, only to betray their trust -- your trust -- now?"

Connor considered this briefly. It was true, if Haytham had wanted the men wiped out, it would have been much smarter to inform the loyalists immediately, while the soldiers were still weak from hunger and travel, than to let them gather their forces. But perhaps Haytham did tell them right away, and they had taken the extra time to collect their own troops for a larger scale assault. Or perhaps they had been waiting in hopes of Washington surfacing if the battle threatened enough lives.

His thoughts were broken when Haytham spoke again. "I didn't want to come," he said quietly. "But I needed you to know it wasn't me. I did not do this, Connor."

"Why?" Connor asked immediately. "Why do you care?"

"Because, as is becoming clearer, you are poisoned against me." Something in Haytham's voice made Connor listen as he pushed onward. "I am conflicted. Charles knows of my recent travels with you, and he believes my attempts to forge an alliance here are futile. But I cannot accept that. I believe there's more to this than knocking the heads of odd soldiers together and then parting ways."

Connor wasn't sure what to say to that speech, so he picked up his bowl of stew from the snow, and, even though his appetite hadn't improved, he took a cautious sip to remove any obligation of reply.

"He wants me to cut away from you," Haytham continued. His eyes were troubled, and his tone betrayed the distress he was a breath away from expressing outright. "I wish I could, but the thought of tomorrow's attack, while I sat quietly in Boston, was intolerable."

Achilles' lecture rang in Connor's brain as he stole a glance at Haytham. What he was hearing made him want more than ever to encourage the Templar to stay close by, to help with the fight, and find a way to work together towards peace, not just for the colonists, but for their orders. But he had taken to heart the accusations his mentor had thrown at him, and he knew he truly was far too trusting. This man could not be believed, however genuine his conflict seemed. "My mentor knows of our meetings," he said at last. "And he has advised me against any more."

"What," Haytham asked indignantly, "You got in trouble with teacher and now you're angry with me? Is that what this is about?"

Connor shrugged lightly. He wasn't even sure himself if it were Achilles' warnings that had turned him so cold, or if it was his own doubt, simply strengthened. Some of it, he knew, was the awkward fog that covered every thought of Haytham since he'd spoken about Hickey. He had lost control of himself, lost all sense of time and presence, and Haytham had clearly not had the patience for it. He had packed up and left Connor to his brokenness.

"I cannot trust anyone," Connor said quietly. "You say my opinion matters to you, yet you tried to kill me not a month ago, and will likely try again the first time I look away."

"No," Haytham said quickly, urgency in his eyes. "I don't want you dead, Connor. . ." he trailed off, clearly displeased with himself. Then, letting out a strained sigh, he said, barely louder than breath, "I want you safe."

As if mocking this confusing wish, a lone gunshot rang through the night air. Whipping his head up, Connor saw a flash of fire far away in the trees, and a hurtling cannonball carved a path of debris through the outlying tents closest to the forest line, as the men around them hit the ground, taking cover as best they could. The battle had begun.


	18. Horse Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: there is an animal death in this chapter. :(

Connor lay belly down on the ground, listening over the screams and gunfire and pounding of boots. It was hard to tell anything in the initial frenzy. If the enemy had already begun the advance, or if they were staying under the cover of the trees. It could have been a lucky shot, but he didn't doubt they were fully within range if they were announcing themselves. He gripped his bow in his left hand, having grabbed it as soon as the shot sounded.

Flames burst high, hot and angry, across the camp, and a booming sound shook the earth. Connor felt something clamping down on his arm. Startled, he looked beside him to see Haytham holding his arm, pulling him up. Connor saw his mouth moving but could hear nothing. Lost, he followed after Haytham as the Templar wove through the rushing soldiers, toward the flames. Toward Blake, who stood tall, waving commands to the startled men. Splinters of wood littered the ground, as did bits of chain, weapons, and, nearly underfoot as they ran, a motionless body.

The heat of the fire that now licked at the tents on either side of the circle bit through Connor's coat and he gasped. Haytham slowed as they reached Blake, and looked over his shoulder at Connor briefly. The hot roaring all around shook Connor to his core, thoughts of home making him stupid.

Blake saw them and called out. "The watchman counts an odd hundred coming out from the trees! I should have liked the dawn before engaging, but we are prepared nonetheless. I want you two at the front, head-on."

They stood there, fire at their backs, fire at their fronts as gunshots echoed across the snow. A hundred opponents, in the dark. It would be a bloodbath. Haytham shouted back, "I think we'd do better the cut their numbers. Connor and I can flank them by horse, fire on the sides."

Blake looked to Connor and he didn't have to reply for the Assassin to know this plan was folly to him. "Do you think it's worth it?" The captain asked.

Connor, still shaken from the flames, glanced at Haytham, who nodded, just slightly. "Yes, it is worth trying."

"Get Freyja!" Haytham spoke over the rifle-fire that punctuated each new gain for the advancing enemy. "We'll give them all we can."

This had not been Blake's daylight plan, but he was clearly as uncertain about the numbers as Connor was. Connor shouldered his bow and sprinted to where the horses were tied, Haytham at his side. When they reached the post, the horses were dancing from side to side, the whites of their eyes flashing in the firelight.

Together, they untied their horse's reins and swung up. Freyja reared back, making Connor seize her mane, but quickly returned to four legs. He gave her a sharp kick and they wheeled around.

"You swing left!" Haytham shouted before spurring Boy onward.

At first Connor tried to run perpendicular with the oncoming troops, avoiding their attention. But the darkness combined with the snow covering the terrain was treacherous, hiding rock and holey regions over which Freyja stumbled and lunged precariously. Connor kept on as long as he dared before the turf became too uneven, and then swung around parallel with the soldiers.

He didn't have many arrows, maybe eight, that he'd brought with him that morning scouting. He reached back with one hand now and started working for his bow. It was one thing to shoot at this distance on the ground, but from horseback, the task became something hellish. He had his bow ready about the time he was halfway past the troop, and in the gloom as he looked up he could just make out the dark shape of Haytham's horse gliding past on the other side.

Steeling himself, Connor rested the reins against Freyja's shoulders, freeing both hands. Her gallop was smooth, and he found he could hold steady well enough as he drew back his bow, first arrow nocked. He let out a quick breath and shot. The arrow found his chosen target's leg, near the knee, and he fell. Around him, men called out and some changed direction, spreading out. Rifles raised. Connor rode on, forcing his shaking hands to nock another arrow. His next shot needed to be better.

The heavy bang of a revolver sounded as Connor trained his arrow on the next victim and he recognized it easily as Haytham's. Loosing his arrow, he grabbed the reins with his left hand, pulling Freyja into a canter. "Easy," he called. He was nearly at the back of the marching forces now. He tried not to think about the front, which had reached the camp.

Another arrow loosed, another man down. A shot rang past his ear, and he rushed to get another of his own in before urging Freyja to the end. Haytham was charging to meet him behind them now. With only the two of them, it seemed the opponents were unwilling to waste many men to deal with their attacks. Yet a half dozen or so turned to face them. A row of barrels, following their movement. Connor reached for another arrow, struggling to grasp anything at first before finally holding fast to a few feathers and wrenching the arrow from his quiver.

Haytham was perhaps twenty strides away when Connor saw it. One soldier, near the center of the approaching group. Connor shouted, though he knew it was no use in the din. Haytham had slowed, apparently reloading, and the world stood still as he looked up. The shot rang as Haytham sawed on his horse's reins. Boy reared back, stumbling, and Haytham and horse fell to the snow, a tangle of hooves and reins.

Connor kicked Freyja hard, racing even with him, and pulled her sharply to one side as they all but trampled the fallen. Haytham was pinned. Connor leaped from Freyja's back as she ran past, rolling in the snow and slamming against Boy's flank as the gelding thrashed. Blood was spurting from an artery in his neck, soaking the moon-glowing snow. Trying to get close, a hoof slammed into Connor's shoulder with a wet crunch, and he crumpled under the force of it.

Haytham was struggling to wrench himself out from under Boy, but the thousand and some pounds of horse would not budge. Boy's rasping breaths and weakening kicks proclaimed his waning life. Connor crawled away from the horse and shuddered as he tried to bring himself to his feet, shoulder lancing with jolts of pain. Haytham needed help, but there were still five men closing a tight circle toward them.

Connor withdrew his hidden blades and dug into the ankle-deep snow, propelling himself at the group with a fierce cry. The soldiers rattled off shot after shot as he wove. One bullet tore at his coat sleeve, agony searing through him as his wounded shoulder took more abuse. He darted around and under bayonets, sinking his left blade deep into the throat of the first he reached. He pivoted, bringing his right across the chest of the next, but nearly collapsed at the pain this brought him as the contact jolted his shoulder.

"Reload, reload!" The farthest shouted, waving at two more who were frantically following the order. Connor clamped his jaw tightly against the pain and bolted for them. He needed to bring them down before they got the chance. Whirling in tight circles, he kicked one's feet out from under him by the knee, skewering the other's brow. It took an agonizing second to jerk the blade from his skull, and in that time the remaining two were at his side. One brought the butt of his gun down hard on Connor's good shoulder, slamming him to the ground. The other raised his bayonet for the kill.

Connor rolled, yelling, onto his right side to bowl the soldier off balance. It worked, and the two began grappling, his hands on Connor's neck. Connor slashed wildly, deep gashes in the side of his opponent's throat. With a sickening crunch, blade met bone at the shoulder, and blood streamed down his coat, into Connor's eyes. He blinked the sting away, his own blood running cold as more trickled into his mouth.

The remaining soldier stood over them, about to land a kick to Connor's head. Connor strained to shove the corpse from him, but with only one good arm, the effort proved titanic. The kick landed and his vision shattered, blackness enveloping him as his head rolled sideways, cheek against the snow. The cold burned him and he held onto that, trying to anchor himself. He was floating.

No further attack was forthcoming. Connor didn't know how much time had passed, but when he regained vision, if spotty, the soldier had disappeared. Grunting, he managed to roll the lolling body off of him, and turned onto his stomach. He began to crawl back towards the now still form of the black gelding, his coat a beacon in the snow. Scrambling upright, stumbling a few steps before finding balance, the soldier who'd kicked him came into focus, standing on the opposite side of Boy. Haytham.

Alarm streamed through his veins and he searched clumsily at his side for his hunting knife. Time stuttered, his actions seeming to repeat in short loops, and his ears rang as his fingers curled around the antler handle at last. The soldier brought his bayonet down and there was a nauseating squelch of blade meeting flesh. Enraged, Connor hurled his knife, all the strength he could muster put into a right-handed shot that made his shoulder spasm. The soldier collapsed, the knife buried in his heart, and Connor tripped and stumbled across the uneven ground.

Haytham was lying, completely still, beside the loyalist. At first, Connor thought he was dead, but his chest rose and fell shallowly. The gun he'd been stabbed with lay beside him, barrel crossed over his chest.

"Haytham!" Connor cried, his voice sounding unfamiliar in his own ears. Connor crawled over Boy's body, collapsing beside Haytham, whose eyes were closed. "Haytham, stay with me." Connor shook his head to clear the spots that danced in his vision, and looked desperately for the wound. Panic rose when he found nothing. "Haytham, where are you hurt?"

His father didn't answer, his breaths quiet and his face nearly as pale as the snow.

Suddenly Connor's attention was grabbed by a thin stream of blood pouring from Boy's back. He reached out shakily, running fingers along the injury and pulled his hand away with black blood glistening.

"Grabbed his boot," Haytham coughed. "Off-balanced him."

Connor gasped with relief and leaned down, adrenaline making him shiver as he put his arms around Haytham clumsily. "We need to get you free."

Haytham patted his back with one hand and coughed again. "Yes, do that. I think my leg may be dislocated."

As they scrambled, both men were gritting their teeth against crying out in pain, but Connor managed to brace his good shoulder against the horse and push enough that, with much grimacing and trying not to roar, Haytham was able to pull free. They made a strange pair, helping Haytham to stand, Haytham trying not to lean too heavily on Connor as he stood with shoulders lopsided. They breathed heavily for a moment, unmoving, before Haytham rasped, "more."

Sure enough, Connor could make out the shapes of more men approaching, rolling massive cannons behind them, pulled with rope.

"Shit," Haytham murmured. "This won't end well, will it?" And they began limping toward the hellish noise and flares of the main battle. Wryly, Haytham added, "I don't suppose there's any chance I could convince you to desert with me?"

Connor didn't grace that with a reply, giving him a rough shove forward instead. They had taken out perhaps a dozen men at best. How many were left in the heat of it?


	19. Late as Usual

"We need to take those cannons out," Haytham shouted. In the camp, bodies littered the ground, bullet wounds oozing fast-chilling blood. But the main fight was outside the perimeters, where Connor and Haytham now hovered, eyes scanning the mass of bodies for Blake. There was no way they could hold their ground until the arrival of reinforcements. All was the flashing red of loyalist coats, mixing with the darker spatters here and there of those already fallen.

"They may not need them!" Connor replied, drinking in the carnage. Flanking the advancement had helped, certainly, but he wasn't sure it had been any more effective than staying put would have been. And now they were both badly injured. Uncertainty racked him. How much service could they be with these odds?

Haytham took hold of Connor's jaw and turned his face towards him, startling him, but he realized the Templar was avoiding touching his sore shoulder. Haytham looked him right in the eyes. "Do you think these men have a chance?"

Connor's chest pounded. "Not if we stand here!" He said desperately, and, without waiting to see if Haytham followed, he charged into the middle of the slashing swords, jabbing bayonets, and shattering gunfire. The next few moments went by in rapid images, flashing one after the other: his hidden blades slashing, blood spattering, the whites of dark eyes, bodies falling, and the white lightning that flickered across his eyes every time he moved his shoulder. 

Snow began to fall around them, getting in Connor's eyes and clouding his vision still more. His ears were pounding as body after body dropped. Finally the rebels fell back enough to form a tight line against the enemy, who advanced steadily, prowling like rabid foxes. The men with cannons, Connor noticed, had left them back in the snow, running to help press their advantage without the extra firing power. It was likely too difficult to get in a proper shot without doing as much damage to their friends by now.

Connor had carved a small clearing around himself, and paused for a second to catch his breath. He caught a flicker of river blue darting through the mayhem and breathed a sigh of relief to see Haytham approaching, cutting down all who stood between them. He moved with an obvious limping gait, but was still managing speed, and Connor could only imagine how much inhibition his uprightness now would put on the healing later. His own legs were fine and he was barely standing. He was vaguely aware of blood trickling down his cheek, but was unsure if it was his own or not.

Haytham closed the distance between them and stood with his back half-turned to Connor, covering his blind side. "Must be fifty of them left at least. Thirty of us, maybe. We got a good deal at the start, it seems, with firing rounds."

Connor didn't answer, pulling a small knife from his boot and hurtling it into the back of a loyalist who was pursuing one of the younger militia. The man spasmed and fell with a thud.

"Well done," Haytham commented. "Shall we jump back into it then?"

Connor started to move forward again, but the strength in him was ebbing fast, and he felt suddenly as though he'd had all the blood drained and his lungs hammered flat. He started to fall, grabbing hold of Haytham to steady himself.

"Connor!" Haytham was facing him completely now, holding onto either arm to help hold him fast. He peered at Connor's face, anxious lines in his brow and the corners of his mouth. 

Connor groaned, shaking his head. He felt as though there were water swishing around in his skull and when he spoke, his words were slurred: "I need to lie down."

"Alright," Haytham agreed readily. He started to bend to pick Connor up, but hesitated. "My leg's not going to take moving you. Sit a moment."

"Here?" Connor blinked away the increasing dark edges that crowded his vision.

"Yes, I'll. . . I'll keep us clear." Demonstrating, Haytham raised his revolver and, with carefully honed skill, took out a soldier twenty feet away. "Sit and clear your head a second, then we'll press on."

Connor was sure they'd be killed if they held still with so many whirling blades around them, but he had no choice. His strength was sapped. He couldn't even crawl to safety at this point, and Haytham's leg, while in tact enough for him to stubbornly hold his own, was nowhere near strong enough to hold both men's weight.

Four soldiers surfaced in Connor's field of vision, two approaching him with bayonets outstretched, looking for an easy kill. The other two circled Haytham, who flexed his own hidden blades in and out in anticipation.

Just as Haytham's blade hit the first's gun barrel with a ringing clash, a loud shout roared over the field: "FALL BACK!"

All turned to look for the source. The loyalist commander was holding his hand high, gun in hand. "FALL BACK MEN!" 

"What in hell's name. . ." Haytham murmured as the redcoats turned and began their retreat. He limped over to Connor, the pain from his injury much more evident in his features now that the battle was waning. He reached out a hand which Connor took gratefully, and leaned back to haul his son upright again. "Steady?" he asked.

Connor nodded, peering around at the damage. "Why did they leave?" he asked, just then processing enough to release Haytham's hand, which he'd still been clutching. "They clearly had the advantage."

Haytham shook his head, frowning. "Equally clear is that something went wro--" He broke off, staring at something toward the path leading to Boston. "Ah. That would be it."

A second later Connor heard it. The thundering heralding of cavalry reinforcements. 

"Washington?" Haytham queried.

"Maybe," Connor answered, shivering.

Haytham looked him over critically, and removed his coat, putting it over Connor's shoulders before the Assassin could object that he already had a perfectly warm one. "We should get you to a bed," Haytham said in a tone that offered no discussion. "You've a cut on your brow that's got me worried."

Worried for him. Connor felt the smallest smile flit across his lips at the thought. Haytham had stayed, even when the odds turned from bad to worse. He had risked his life to trim the enemy's numbers, and lost his horse in the process. Now he was, once again, staying put to care for Connor. Despite Achilles' rage, Connor could feel the smallest threads of trust weaving together again. 

"Keep a good watch, men!" Connor heard Blake ordering as the soldiers regrouped. He jogged to greet the approaching allies, whose horses whinnied and snorted with obvious exhaustion. Connor turned his head long enough to see that it was, indeed, Washington. Haytham, however, did not give them a glance, his eyes fully on Connor as they set off at a slow shuffle for medical attention.

"So flanking didn't turn out to be the best idea I've ever had," Haytham said, a hint of humor in his voice. "Still, I think we did quite well. Neither of our heads got crushed in."

"Mine nearly did," Connor muttered.

"Is that what the cut's from?" Haytham asked, eyeing it with apprehension.

Connor nodded. "A boot, I think."

"Hmm. Good kick."

They didn't speak any more until both had been examined by the medic Connor had given such a hard time last visit. It turned out his name was Saul, and he was too overwhelmed with more serious injuries than theirs to give them more than a quick head-to-toe glance. "Dislocated knee," he said after looking at Haytham, "and a concussion, I shouldn't wonder," he added with a nod at Connor. "What's the matter with your shoulder?"

Connor let him feel it, but snarled with pain as he pinched down. Haytham shoved Saul back, startling them both. "It's broken, you stupid sod!" he barked. "You don't need to grind it up any more with those clumsy mits."

Though his vision had momentarily gone yellow at the prodding, Connor recovered quickly. "I think he is right," he managed, embarrassed by Haytham's sudden show of protection. "I got kicked, by a horse."

"Hm," Saul grunted. "That'll do it, won't it."

Close to Connor's ear, Haytham drawled, "Just how many times do you need to get kicked in one night?" 

Connor was about to shove him when another man ran up to Saul, calling out "we've got a bad one here!" and Saul said hurriedly to them: "I'll be with you both in a short while, but for now you'll have to take a cot and be patient." Giving them a wave of the hand, he jogged after the anxious soldier.

"Excellent. I'm good at being patient," Haytham announced.

Connor rolled his eyes, scoffing. "About as good at patience as I am at flanking."

"You did well," Haytham objected. "Particularly for a bow and arrow."

Connor looked at him more sharply than he'd meant to, wondering what his companion was implying with the remark.

"Having to use both hands so much, I mean," Haytham said quickly. "It's much more difficult. . . with both hands busy." He raised an eyebrow, seeming confused by his own words.

Connor blinked. It seemed strange that Haytham was praising him after all the mishaps the night had brought, but all the same, his tone was friendly. "You did well too," Connor said after the moment's hesitation. 

For a single heartbeat that night he had been terrified that Haytham was dead. The relief that flooded him when Haytham had opened his eyes, still pinned under that horse, was now riddling him with guilt. He shouldn't feel so pleased to stand beside this man. To share in combat with him and come away smiling. And yet part of him wanted nothing more than to strengthen whatever it was they had forged together. 

Haytham raised a hand slowly to brush away drying blood from Connor's brow, and the Assassin allowed it. For now, in this moment, he wouldn't waste time on uncertainty. The feeling of Haytham's fingertips brushing along his skin, rougher as he rubbed stubbornly at the blood trail, was comforting. He would embrace this for however long he could.


	20. Ravenous

As it turned out, Saul was backed up with gunshot wounded soldiers for several hours, and Haytham's leg was getting worse, swelling and stiffening. He voiced the temptation to put it back into place himself, but Connor had objected loudly, stating he'd likely make it worse. Uneasily, Haytham continued to wait. The Assassin was right, he wasn't patient.

Connor lay in his own cot, a cool cloth on his forehead and a folded blanket under his head.. He seemed to be resting relatively quietly now, with only the occasional gasp of pain when he shifted position.

For a while they had tried to pass the time with talk of their respective homes. Connor had shown disdain at first as Haytham described his childhood years, but as he went on, Haytham thought he could see a flash of warmth grace his eyes. Haytham had been away from British soil for so long. Half his life, nearly, spent in this strange place, and still it was no nearer to being home. At this, Connor had expressed sympathy, admitting that he often missed his village. "If I could go back now, and leave all of this, I would in a moment," Connor had said bitterly. "But that has never been a choice." This proved an end to the conversation, and they'd been lying quietly for some time since.

"I don't suppose," Haytham said, staring at the ceiling of the tent, "You would like to help me."

Connor pushed himself laboriously into an upright position with his good arm and the cloth that had been on his forehead slid off. "With your knee?"

Haytham closed his eyes, smiling sardonically. "Yes, with my knee, Connor."

"I only have one hand to work with," Connor said dubiously. "I am not sure I could help much."

"I'm sure we can manage together," Haytham argued. "If I lie here like this much longer, I'm going to go mad." He grimaced as he shifted, sitting up too. "Come on."

To his relief, Connor cooperated, slowly making his way onto his feet. "I should not be standing right now," he complained. "My head is pounding like drums."

"Best be quick then," Haytham answered, though a twinge of worry passed through him. With Connor's old side wound still healing, a broken shoulder, and a head injury, his situation was more than troubling.

Connor shuffled to stand next to Haytham, who budged over as best he could to make room for the Assassin to sit on the edge of his cot. His leg was slightly bent, and he tried, gritting his teeth, to straighten it. The pain intensified, sharp stabbing sensations all along his knee and into his thigh. This wasn't going to do at all.

"Here," Connor reached out, placing his hand on Haytham's thigh, making the older man keenly aware of the awkward situation he'd pushed them into. Connor stood up, and, fighting the warmth that prickled in his cheeks, Haytham let him guide him until he had taken Connor's place on the edge of the cot, legs hanging over.

"This is the best way to relax it," Connor explained. "If you straighten it yourself, it makes the muscles near the bone tense."

Haytham blinked, admiration and anxiety mingling. "Alright. And now?" Personally, he had never had to replace a dislocated kneecap. He had done shoulders before, though. Once for Charles. How different could it be?

Connor knelt by his feet. "I just need to. . ." he trailed off and glided his hand down to the side of Haytham's knee, making him tense at the tenderness of the joint. Using only the very tips of his fingers, he began gently to massage at one side of the kneecap, trying to coax it back into place. "If you want, you can move your leg with one hand, below the knee, but only a little," he murmured, concentration furrowing his brow.

Haytham sat staring at him, wincing now and then, as Connor increased pressure slowly, making little circles. Once he got a feel for where his leg needed to go, he leaned forward enough to reach down and slowly rotate his leg, centimeter by centimeter. But as Connor grew more insistent, the pain spiked and Haytham gasped, swaying slightly as he tried to keep from yelling.

Connor's focus did not break, however, and with a sudden but soft clicking sensation that chewed at his nerves, it was back in place.

Haytham let out a few short breaths and closed his eyes. "Thank you," he rasped.

Connor sat on the ground for a moment, moving his hand over the knee to check that everything truly was in order. It felt worlds better, though still stiff and swollen.

Haytham put a hand on Connor's good shoulder, patting him gently, lest the force jar his bad one.

"I should get some snow, to work on bringing the swelling down," Connor considered. He started to stand, but his balance was off and he swayed, reaching for Haytham's leg as support. Fortunately, it was his good leg that Connor found. Unfortunately, it was high enough to add significant discomfort to the flushed Templar all the same.

Haytham could sense the beginnings of a very familiar sensation. The urge for adventure, the impulse to act on temptations he knew were best left unfed. It grew ravenously like wildfire, and, swallowing, he placed a hand on Connor's cheek, tracing his jawline. He didn't dare say anything, slowly sliding his fingers under Connor's chin and tilting it up.

The Assassin's eyes met his, unreadable. His breaths were shallow, his hand still resting on Haytham's thigh. Strands of dark hair spilled into his face and his lips made a firm line so characteristic of a Kenway.

Haytham leaned forward until their faces were inches apart, and Connor's fingers curled around the curve of his thigh in anticipation -- good or bad, he couldn't tell. For a split second, Haytham hesitated, his mind battling his body. But before he could come to a decision, Connor bridged the distance, craning his neck so that their lips brushed, feather-light.

Hungrily, Haytham deepened the kiss, all caution lost. He ran a hand along Connor's scalp, weaving fingers through messy hair, and Connor let an unseemly moan escape. Haytham pressed bruisingly, forcing Connor's mouth to open more, letting him in, and both caught what breaths they could during the scramble for more.

It was foreign, after so many years of only one man's lips, to learn Connor's unique patterns. The way his head tilted more and more to the right, as Haytham tended to himself. His eyes were closed, opening only occasionally when they took a moment to breathe. He seemed to prefer more shallow kisses, light but long, with rare but intoxicating flashes of urgency which Haytham met with vigor. His lips tasted ever so faintly of blood, Haytham realized, which only made him press deeper, running his tongue over them again and again.

Connor shivered at the sensation, and opened wider, taking the cue as Haytham suspected he would. Holding firmly against the back of his head, Haytham flicked his tongue against the roof of Connor's mouth, just behind the teeth, and was rewarded with a soft whimper. He traced the inside of Connor's mouth thoroughly, memorizing the new grooves and ridges, while his son melted in his arms. He ran a hand along Connor's throat, drinking in the pounding pulse that gave away so much. Haytham wished desperately that Connor's shoulder weren't injured. . . it would make progression so much easier from here. But as quickly as it had started, Connor began to edge away, removing his hand from Haytham and sitting back.

The air rang with silence as their systems calmed. Connor stared at Haytham with those eyes, so much like Ziio's, and as the seconds passed tensely, the Templar looked away. There could be nothing to say after something like this. Emphasizing the sentiment, Haytham shifted back onto his cot, reclining slowly. Connor did not move.

They were still in this unnerving silence when Saul finally entered to see about Haytham's leg.


	21. Unworthy Favors

Connor felt Haytham's eyes on him as the Assassin carefully worked the cool blade along his jawline, scraping against the short stubbly hairs. It was difficult with his off hand, and though he preferred having water, or better yet, tweezers, to work with, this would have to suffice.

"I never really thought about it," Haytham spoke, leaning forward in the corner of Connor's vision. "But that's another trait you clearly got from me."

Connor's jaw tightened at the comment, which he nearly paid for with a nicking. He paused to answer. "It is how I knew for sure. She never said, that you were white, but I knew. When I became a man, there was no doubt."

Haytham chuckled quietly, and Connor heard the rustling of clothing as he exchanged his battle-filthy shirt for a fresh one, which was one of several provisions he'd gathered on an outing to ask about Freyja. While Connor needed to spend most of his time lying down, Haytham was more or less free to wander the camp and gather information on any forthcoming assaults. He had assured the restless Assassin that all was quiet, however, and stayed with him after that.

Feeling strange heat creeping through him, Connor stole a glance at Haytham. Shaving completely forgotten, he studied the Templar.

Haytham's shoulders were strong, well-formed and tight, and his arms, swarthy from years of working in summer, betrayed his swordsmanship in their definition. Connor himself was well toned from weapon work, but something in Haytham's form told the decades of experience he had on his son. Connor's eyes were drawn to the small swiping scars that appeared here and there, some tangled up in others, decorating his arms all the way down -- particularly on his right -- and went on to speckle his chest. One long gash, that looked no older than a year, drew a pinkish white stripe across him like a bandolier.

Haytham gave a subtle cough. Too late, Connor realized the Templar had paused in the middle of changing, fully aware of his audience.

Connor looked away sharply, the heat that had been creeping now burning hot across his cheeks. After a moment, he resumed shaving, desperate to busy himself, and relieved by the cold metal.

"Want some help? I doubt it's easy with one hand." Haytham wandered closer, still shirtless. It was going to be one of those days.

Connor handed him the knife silently. Haytham looked it over with interest. It was one of Connor's oldest hunting knives, and though he kept it sharp, it had bites out of it here and there from unfortunate encounters with rock and harder blades.

"It's a good knife," Haytham said finally, sitting down beside him and turning Connor's face towards him by the chin without a hint of the fluttering tension that always accompanied this proximity for Connor.

He lifted the knife, and for a fraction of a second, Connor thought he knew what deer felt like upon spotting him, arrow at the ready. But then his nerves calmed, soothed by the gentle hand Haytham cupped against his cheek to hold him steady while he set to work on the other side.

"After this," Haytham said, eyes fixed on the blade, "we should get you into something clean. I don't want to know how long you've been wearing all that."

Connor narrowed his eyes, but didn't speak, keenly aware of the sharp metal against his skin as it brushed back along his stubble.

"There's hardly anything to shave, you know."

Connor spoke cautiously, and Haytham immediately paused. "It is enough. We do not like any at all."

"Are you using the royal we?" Haytham smiled softly, bringing more clearly into focus this strange new side of him: warm and companionable, almost startling in its foreignness.

Connor wasn't sure what the "royal we" was, so he said nothing in response. He had meant his people, his friends and extended family. Anyone who did have some small hairs plucked them. It had always been that way, as far as he knew. It was hygienic, unlike some of the horrifying bushes of hair he'd seen in the towns, unwashed and likely to catch in things.

By the time Haytham finished clearing one side and started to move his supporting hand away, Connor found he had begun to lean against it heavily, comfortable in Haytham's weathered palm, and he quickly straightened.

"Connor?" Haytham stopped between sides, setting the blade down between them.

Connor's brow furrowed, suspicious. "Yes?"

"Could you grant me an unworthy favor?" Haytham's mouth was set in a hard line, eyes unreadable.

"What is it?" Connor asked, feeling no less uneasy. Since the night before, he found everything Haytham did highly suspect.

"Would you tell me about Zi--" he corrected himself from whatever he'd been going to say, "About your mother?"

They had a pact not to talk about her, Connor remembered with slight irritation. Yet so much was different now. Haytham's antagonizing taunts seemed far away, and as Connor looked back at him, emotions crashing against each other, he saw only longing. He scowled. "You miss her?"

"I do," Haytham admitted quietly. "She. . . woke up something in me I'd all but forgotten."

Connor considered in silence. With how often Haytham used insults or humor as defense, it seemed unlikely he would allow vulnerability now if it weren't important to him. His mother had always spoken highly of this man. And yet, how much of that had been idealistic lies to help him believe he came from something better? Did it matter? He decided. He had no reason to keep these things from his father. Let Haytham prove his own history, or not.

"Her name was Kaniehtí:io. Did you know her name?"

"Yes, I did. Though it wasn't the easiest to pronounce." Haytham smiled slightly. "I called her Ziio."

Connor let out a short breath. "Of course." His own name he hadn't heard in a very, very long time, but he had accepted the new, English name both because Achilles had given it to him, which made it seem more comfortable, and because it had served him well in avoiding any more unwanted attention than necessary. But his mother had no reason for such things. Not that he'd known of.

Haytham shrugged. "She considered it an endearment, rather than a lack of effort on my part."

"She used to call me. . . Cub. When I was small." Connor remembered, surprised to have forgotten. So much of her had faded from his mind as the years flew past. "Not in English," he added thoughtfully. "Though she did teach me. That is how I know most of what I do."

Haytham nodded approvingly. "When I first met her, I assumed she didn't understand me. She wasted no time in my correction, and taught me a thing or two besides. Certainly, about combat, survival . . . romance." The worn but reverent tinges in his voice as he spoke told more than his words about the respect he'd held for Kaniehtí:io. "She was an incredible woman, loyal and resourceful. She cared about you very much, from the moment she knew she carried you."

"Why was she with you?" Connor found himself asking. He couldn't help thinking that there seemed to be a few possible justifications for his mother's attraction, starting with those shoulders. But the thought was immediately stifled. At least it seemed he had taken away a good image of her. He had described the woman Connor had known, for only a short blink of his life, and it was obvious he had held her in his affections, even after so many years.

The corner of Haytham's mouth quirked as he considered. "We more or less fell into each other's lives, I suppose. We needed each other, for a time. I met her through the order. Helped her out of a tight spot. In return she gave me the time of day."

Connor smiled, just a tiny flicker, but Haytham's eyes shone as he caught it.

"You do smile," he observed, at once making Connor self-conscious. Seeming to realize this, Haytham offered him a distraction, picking up the knife between them again. "Shall we finish this up?"

Connor nodded, and Haytham resumed. The ordeal was over with quickly enough, after a good deal of nerve-wracking scraping, and Haytham stood again. "Thank you, Connor. I want you to know. . . I loved your mother." More quietly, he added: "I would have followed her to the end, if I could."

This was hardly a good place to stop talking, and Connor very much wanted to ask for clarification: ask why he'd left her if he'd loved her so much. As he thought over the conversation, he set about carefully taking the re-purposed belt sling Saul had made from around his neck, lowering his arm from its hold at the wrist. The pain made him grit his teeth, and his shoulder felt like rock, stiff and unyielding. He would need help with his clothes too. He cursed quietly.

"Trouble?" Haytham asked from by his cot, where he was undoing various belts and fastenings of his own.

Connor shook his head, then, sighing, turned and said: "I am not sure I can get any of this off without . . ."

"Help?" Haytham suggested helpfully. He seemed entirely too pleased with the situation. Then he casually dropped his pants and set about putting on a new pair.

Connor opened his mouth to complain and closed it again, torn between looking away and staring. But shame overtook him and he stared instead purposefully at the far corner of the tent until he heard the linking of a belt buckle.

"So modest," Haytham laughed. "Were there no other men in your village? A village of two, perhaps?"

There was the old Haytham Connor was used to. He set a sullen scowl on him, but something about the situation made it hard to hold, and it shook, trying to let a smile through.

After Haytham had finished making Connor uncomfortable, he came over to help. He thought for a second, eyes scanning Connor's torso, and then he said: "Your shirt's loose enough I think we can get it over your head from behind, and then slide it down your arms. That way we won't need to move your shoulder very much."

Connor agreed, though he knew this was likely to hurt however they did it. Haytham moved behind him and Connor turned so he had easier access to pull his shirt up. The moment when it slid over the crest of his shoulders and tightened from the angle proved his suspicions. He let out a protesting yelp.

"Alright," Haytham said, and stopped moving. Then, holding their progress with one hand, he reached up to gather Connor's hair with his other. It was getting very long, and he knew he probably should cut it, but in the winter its warmth was very welcome. Haytham narrated their situation: "One more pull, very quickly, over your head, and the worst is over." Then, as if this had been delivered with entirely too much bedside manner for his liking, he added: "Honestly, I'd expect more pain tolerance from an Assassin."

Connor was already humiliated that he needed help getting undressed. He didn't need Haytham's quips. "Just do it," he growled.

He was right, it was quick, and even relatively pain-free.

Tossing the shirt aside, Haytham let out a small gasp. At first Connor wasn't sure what was so interesting, but then Haytham placed his hand, cobweb-light, against his arm, tracing the spattering of angry black bruises that ran from shoulder to elbow. The contact hurt, but barely, and Connor said nothing.

"I suppose if one were to complain, this is a decent reason," Haytham allowed. Then he circled around to assess his work more effectively. Connor shrunk under his gaze, feeling vaguely hunted. And yet, he supposed, this was fair, after his earlier staring.

"You've worked very hard these last years," Haytham noted. "It shows. Well done." It was the first time Haytham had blatantly praised him, and a mixture of satisfaction and embarrassment washed over him in turns as Haytham placed a hand on Connor's good shoulder, running it slowly along his collarbone and chest. Connor tensed under his touch, cool fingers in the winter air gliding over hypersensitive skin. He could feel the callouses at the base of Haytham's fingers as he paused, hand above Connor's heart.

It was happening again. Heat, and a roaring in his ears, thoughts yanked unwillingly to the night before, the taste and desperate need for Haytham on his lips. He felt possessed by some strange monster, devoid of shame, craving only attention, affection. He swallowed hard, fighting the knots forming in his belly from adrenaline. It was impossible how quickly this bizarre burning could overtake him.

Haytham was watching him closely, and Connor's heart skipped a beat as Haytham's pupils dilated visibly. The Templar pushed him back with the hand on his chest, roughly enough that Connor squeaked with pain as the jolt reverberated through his shoulder. And then he was lying down, on his back, looking up in terror as Haytham climbed on top of him.


	22. Into the Sun

The cot was small. Very small. Haytham could just manage to straddle him, perched expertly as a bobcat, peering down at Connor. "Still with me?" He asked, and as he did, Connor realized that his voice did sound far away. He couldn't shut down again. Not now. Any time but now.

"Yes," Connor said breathlessly. Every muscle in his body felt rigid, apprehension fighting anticipation as he processed Haytham's legs pressing against his, and his hands, fingers trailing along his sides . . . "Is-- does that . . . hurt your leg?" He managed to ask.

Haytham laughed, short and warm. "Yes." But clearly it wasn't enough to dissuade him as he leaned forward, shifting much of his weight onto Connor, who, for a moment, could only appreciate the heaviness pressing him down, all muscle and sinew.

Haytham brought his lips to Connor's bare chest, where he trailed small, explorative kisses along his sternum, leading up to the curve of his collarbone, and Connor felt his breaths becoming shorter as the Templar became more forceful, giving him fresh bruises. There was a heady white tinge to it all, a ringing ignorance that he clung to desperately, unwilling to face what was happening. His firm kisses, his curious fingertips mapping every inch of available skin . . . it all felt too good for Connor to indulge doubt.

Haytham ran a hand along Connor's good arm soothingly, seeming to sense the conflict that shivered between them like frost. His other hand was by Connor's head, bracing him over the rapidly more and more flustered Assassin.

"Anyone could come in," Connor said, his throat tight. He was too overwhelmed to figure out if this was a bad, dangerous thing or a good, exhilarating thing. His body treated the two the same more often than not.

"Like your friend Washington," Haytham agreed cheerfully, and set straight back into kissing at the base of Connor's neck, which made Connor's mind go blank as warm lips and tongue claimed him. Once Haytham reached his throat, something in Connor ignited, and he began squirming under the Templar's attentions, curling his good arm around Haytham's neck, and, pleasantly surprised by the satisfaction he felt from it, curled fingers into a fist in Haytham's hair. His was long like Connor's, dark and speckled with grey, but it was soft, and he found himself holding tightly.

Haytham didn't seem concerned by Connor's hold on him, and his soft breath, hot against Connor's pulse, was intoxicating, predatory. He nipped sharply, just at the base of Connor's jaw, and Connor let out an unintentional whine, blood pounding. His hand slipped to the base of Haytham's neck, resting against strong muscle, as Haytham pressed hungry, harsh kisses against his jaw, trailing toward his ear. Before Connor could process the instinct, he was angling his head to give Haytham more room.

"So cooperative," Haytham murmured, warm breath in his ear. His uninjured leg was shifting, sliding obscenely over Connor's to rest dangerously between his thighs, and Connor's hips jerked. A deep, burning need was forming in his belly, and he felt himself hardening as Haytham's thigh brushed against him, just lightly. Connor gave a low moan, rocking his hips more purposefully, desperate for any contact.

"And needy." Haytham brushed the tip of Connor's earlobe with his teeth, biting down, gently at first, but increasing pressure until Connor yelped and tried to turn his head still further in escape. Haytham released him, replacing the sharpness with a gentle flick of his tongue and a low chuckle.

Shifting tracks, Haytham leaned back momentarily, causing Connor to let out an undignified whimper at the lessened proximity. But he had only moved long enough to take Connor's hand in his, rough and calloused, and guide it from his neck where he'd been clutching unconsciously, and move it along his shoulder to a more comfortable hold. Connor wasn't sure why, but he was hesitant to reciprocate any of these attentions. After last night, he'd felt only guilt, shame, and a deep, frightening arousal, for the part he'd played. It was too much like Bridewell.

But he curled his arm around Haytham all the tighter, fingers gripping his shoulder, which was nearly hot to the touch, as if feverish, and Haytham moved up the small amount it took to press into him, his hardness blatant. Connor arched upward, moaning at the traction as Haytham began to rock back against him.

This was the most Connor had ever done, aside from Thomas. He'd had a few stray kisses, and seen more than he wanted to, skipping from rooftop to rooftop in Boston and New York. There were many times he'd witnessed skulking couples in alleyways. But this was different, this was heat roaring through him and a desperate, clawing need for more, more skin, more of Haytham's beautiful lips on him, his hands. His own fingers dug deeper into Haytham's shoulder, leaving marks.

Frustration soared as sparks of pleasure flashed through him like lightning with every movement, little jolts of a need that was barely touched. "Haytham," Connor breathed, voice hoarse and bowstring taut. "Haytham . . ." he said again. He didn't know what else to say, his mind completely wiped clean by the urgent pressure crackling between them.

Haytham gave a throaty almost-purr, and leaned to kiss Connor's cheek. The gesture was surprisingly affectionate considering the moaning mess Connor was rapidly becoming, and he blinked, peering up as the Templar paused his movements, maintaining steady pressure. "You've no idea," Haytham breathed, "how long I've waited."

Connor looked into his eyes, momentarily mesmerized by how similar they really were. He could recognize some of the same shape in them, the same deepness, and the softness there now . . . it filled him with warmth. But he was not fully distracted from his frustrations, and, gripping Haytham's shoulder tightly for support, he arched his chin upward to kiss Haytham's lips. The immediate familiarity, already strong and comforting, from what last night had seemed so frightening, made him moan in appreciation as the Templar kissed him back, chapped lips firmly pushing him down.

The kiss deepened, and this time Haytham didn't waste any time on decorum, grinding against Connor lewdly, and the Templar's teeth cut into his lip, hungry nips and furtive pressing, bruising and feral. They were rapidly tangling together, braiding tightly and setting Connor's skin alight with a pleasant thrumming that he'd never encountered before, and his hands, his fingers, were everywhere, caressing his cheek, his jaw, his chest, his wrists, in turns gentle and clumsy with urgency.

And then, with a jolt that left Connor gazing plaintively, the Templar moved off of him, up from the cot. "Haytham!" Connor complained, a surreal curtain hanging between his conscious need and the roiling fright deep in his belly. "Where are you go--"

"Just a moment," Haytham promised, and he moved to his discarded coat, fishing around, hands shaking with the same adrenaline Connor felt pulsing through him. Connor watched, breaths still unsteady and body flushed, as Haytham pulled out a small round object, attached to a long leather cord. He stared at it a moment, seeming to lose himself, before shoving it away again and producing a small glass vial from one of the inside pockets. "There we are," he said with satisfaction.

"What is that?" Connor asked, confusion mingling with dread as Haytham re-seated himself achingly over Connor's hips.

"Aloe," Haytham explained. "It's good for, well . . . soothing pain, and for lubrication."

Connor could feel the color deepening in his cheeks as his heart skipped a beat. He didn't ask anything else, frighteningly aware of what was going to happen next, and how many layers of wrongness they were plummeting through.

Haytham leaned down to kiss Connor, rushed but consoling, the comforting brush of lips on lips, teeth grazing, the quick flick of his tongue, before he began to work at Connor's trousers. To accomplish anything, he needed to slide down a bit, which he did with care for his injured leg. In contrast to Haytham's forced patience, Connor's mind flew on beating wings, panic tainting excitement. He wriggled his hips to help, and even as the fabric slid, the late winter air nipping at his legs, he knew he was damning himself in every way a man could.

And yet he lay still, naked and cold, with Haytham's gaze flickering over him, from mussed hair to scar laid over scar, trailing across his bronzed skin. As a grown man, Connor had never been this exposed, this vulnerable, for anyone. Strange eyes on him, strange hands assuming permission, these had always been met with hostility. But here, with Haytham, the Templar's gliding hands, normally so strong, so rough, moved with ease and reverence over Connor's ribs, his hips, his thighs, and the Assassin felt a quiet peace pushing down the fear. For better or worse, this man had his complete trust.

At first, Haytham paid most of his attentions to Connor's hips, kissing light caresses across skin humming with lightning jolts of arousal, and he paused by the old bayonet wound in Connor's side, studying it. "So many stories," he murmured, "and only a precious few I've played a part in." He moved fingers slowly over a small white nick on Connor's other side, which the Assassin remembered acquiring in a tangle with a mountain cat.

Connor wanted to sit up, pull Haytham closer, wrap his arms around this puzzle of a man, so occupied with his scrapes and bruises, when his hard cock was blatantly aching for attention. Connor had expected things to continue in the rushed, demanding fashion they so often did with Haytham; yet now that Connor lay nude before him, the Templar had slowed, luxuriating in every detail. "Haytham," Connor said quietly, "Please. . ."

Haytham smiled, voice low as he answered. "I'm sorry, am I not going quickly enough?"

Connor wasn't entirely sure whether he wanted Haytham to move on or to stop altogether. The aching pressure building in him cried for more. More touch, more friction, more of anything he could get. All his instincts were culminating into a desire that left him helpless, dependent on Haytham's lead.

"Say it again, then," Haytham nearly growled, his eyes catching Connor's with a steely glint. He clearly sensed Connor's vulnerability, and, at a loss, Connor whined, low in his throat. "Please." Then, at the pure gratification that flickered across Haytham's features, he added again, "Please, Haytham."

"Please what?" Haytham smiled, just at one corner of the mouth, and began working at his own belt with apparent preoccupation.

What indeed. Connor reached to grip Haytham's wrist tightly, and gave a weak tug forward. The Templar allowed himself to be swayed, and his erection, starkly pronounced through his trousers, pressed against Connor's, not enough, only enough to flood Connor with overpowering need.

"What do you want, Connor?" Haytham asked again, the patience in his voice ringed with lust as he rocked dauntlessly against him.

"This," Connor breathed, eyelids fluttering as tension grew in his groin. "More of this." The words were whispered, but as soon as he'd said them, Haytham was on him in earnest, tossing his belt aside with a clank, wrenching his trousers down enough to free his own swollen cock. Connor barely had time to take in Haytham's form, naked and coated in soft lamplight, as he loomed over him, before the Templar secured a tuft of Connor's hair in curled fingers and pulled the two closer together, hips grinding, and _fuck_ , the shuddering satisfaction that coursed through Connor now stole his breath away.

Haytham guided Connor's legs to hook on either side of his hips, and they were so close now that Connor felt their souls overlap as shivers of pleasure overtook him. Haytham held fast to his thighs, pressing against him agonizingly, the haphazard contact of their cocks brushing together serving only to tease the desperate Assassin. He let out a quiet moan, arching his hips in a slow rhythm that had Haytham groaning with urgency.

And then, at last, Haytham put hands on him, giving in to whatever force was locking them together. Connor shuddered under his attention as those clever fingers worked along his cock, firm and fluttering in turn, coaxing Connor towards the edge of a euphoria he was only beginning to understand. Shoulder prickling with pain that he doggedly ignored, Connor bucked and writhed against Haytham's palm, almost afraid of how good it felt to have just that little bit more, always more.

"Hold on now," Haytham said quietly, pressing his free hand against Connor's chest, grounding him. Connor forced himself to still, breaths catching in his throat. Haytham began to trail kisses, harsh and sharpened with teeth, from Connor's hip to his cock, pausing only a moment as Connor squirmed under him, before wrapping his lips around Connor. A debauched wave of drunkenness swept over Connor as he stared, entranced, at the Templar's beautiful lips, his hollowed cheeks, and he shook under the luring flicker of Haytham's tongue across his cockhead.

Yet, out of the enrapturing daze surfaced a dull pain, starting in his chest and slithering, poisonous and angry, to his loins, the pleasure from Haytham's bobbing attentions turning into solitary fear. He stopped moving, joints freezing as stiffly as his injured shoulder, and his blood ran cold. Haytham didn't take long to notice the shift. He lifted his head, licked his lips. "Connor?"

His voice sounded far away, and with a jolt of panic, Connor knew he was slipping again. To the place that had caused Haytham to leave before. The place that wasn't worth Haytham's patience. But Haytham's hands on his hips, holding him down, had changed, from firm reassurance to a suffocating grip that forced images of Charles Lee into his head, weighing him down with nauseating fear. He could hear Thomas, hear his voice, see his eyes, hear him laugh.

"Connor?" Haytham said again, startling him into focus. "Steady." And he felt Haytham running a soothing hand along his side. "Are you with me?"

Connor closed his eyes, blinked rapidly, and reopened, fixing his gaze on Haytham with determination. "Yes," he said, throat suddenly dry. A new kind of desperation, more hollow and cold than the lust that had coursed through him moments before, was opening up inside him. He felt like he was plummeting into a dark, unending gorge. "Keep me here. Haytham, don't lose me."

Haytham studied him a moment, and then he shifted him over. Though his guidance was gentle, he needn't have been, for the pain in his shoulder barely registering as he edged enough for Haytham to lie against him, half overlapping, and he felt the rough prickle of Haytham's jaw against his good shoulder. The Templar curled an arm over his chest, kneading small circles with thumb and fingers over Connor's heart. "I'm here," he murmured, placing an uncharacteristically soft kiss against Connor's cheek.

Connor counted between breaths, four seconds in, seven seconds out, closed his eyes, concentrating on the cold numbness in his fingertips, willing away the racking shivers that had overtaken the rest of his body. He was vaguely aware of Haytham placing a thick wool blanket over top of them both, and hooking a leg over his. He wondered how Haytham, still obviously rock-hard, was willing to put up with this sudden halt. And yet he lay still, engulfing Connor with warmth and the uneven tempos of their hearts.

Haytham's hot breath against his throat, which a moment before had served only to rush him further into mad desire, now served as the only barrier between him and the edge of complete mental disaster. Connor let out a shuddering sigh as Haytham spoke quietly against his skin. "Don't shut me out. I'm right here, Connor."

It was all too much. Connor's inexperience, his vulnerability, when offered up to this dangerous, hostile man, his own father . . . there was nothing to feel but terror. And even then, he'd pressed on, engulfed with lust, until it had overwhelmed him, forcing him into a corner where there was only guilt, clawing at him hungrily. He needed to explain, but no words came. None of it was right, none of it ever could be, and despite that, he wanted it. Shame crept over his skin like spiders.

At last, Connor spoke, haltingly. "I do not want you to stop," he whispered. Haytham lifted his head slightly to meet Connor's eyes.

"Are you sure?" Haytham asked, skepticism clear in the furrow of his brow.

"It frightens me," Connor admitted. He hated feeling this way, anger flickering at his own weakness. "But _you_ do not. I trust _you_. I want to . . ." he stopped, unsure how to proceed.

"I trust you too," Haytham said quietly, and reached to place his steady hand to Connor's cheek, fingertips tousling the loose strands of hair that drifted down in front of his ear. "And I want to show you. This isn't just about . . ." He too stumbled, but only momentarily. "About my enjoyment. There's no purpose if it doesn't belong to us both."

The hollowness pulsed and Connor's heart ached strangely, as if something were pressing upward from inside. He had never known anyone that made him so hungry for touch, for closeness, and yet every time he got the intimacy he desired, it burnt him with flames of self-loathing and fear.

"If you need to control this, you can," Haytham said after a few quiet moments. "Only don't drive me out."

"You tried to kill me," Connor said tonelessly. He wasn't sure why it was important now, but it was. It had only been a little while, really, since he'd met his father. Since his father had threatened to gut him. And now they lay entwined like Connor were a common whore. Yet what whore received such tenderness? Least of all from Haytham Kenway.

Haytham let out a soft sigh. "Whatever's happened, leading to this moment, know that I will not harm you. Connor, eight months after Ziio left me, I wondered what she'd named you. I wondered at a year if she would teach you any English. At five years, if you knew you had a father. At ten, if I would see you. I've spent the last decades of my life pining after you in a most unsuitable way. To have the privilege of knowing you now . . . all I want is to show what that means." He averted his eyes from Connor as the Assassin stared at him.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Haytham said at last, the sounds foreign from his tongue, and hesitant, but the warmth in his voice unmistakable. A melancholy pleasure surfaced to hear his true name, after so long without it, mingled with a quiet joy that Haytham, who bothered very little with such personal things, had remembered, and valued, the name his mother had given him.

Connor found himself smiling, the tiniest flicker, and he nuzzled his face into Haytham's bare shoulder to hide momentarily. "Show me, then," he said quietly, lips brushing against sinew and beautiful bone. Throwing every reservation, every instinct, to the wind but one, the burning flame deep in his belly that had been pushed aside during his panic, he now focused on that flame, nursing its rekindling. "You have me now."

And Haytham moved, almost reverently, to brush against Connor, drawing feeling back to all the right places, and banishing the numb fear that had held him fast. He pulled Connor's legs up carefully, guiding his ankles to rest on Haytham's sturdy shoulders. Though there was a flutter of nervousness as Haytham caressed his thighs, the curve of his ass, and his jutting hipbones, Connor could feel in equal parts a deepening comfort pouring from his fingertips like warm summer wine.

Haytham took a quiet moment to open the vial, which Connor had all but forgotten about, and the distinct, not unpleasant, smell of aloe wafted over them as he carefully coated his fingers with it. Connor looked on, confused but trusting, painfully aware of the long-suppressed hardness of his cock pulsing as he watched those long, slender fingers.

"Have you ever done anything like this?" Haytham asked with a quick glance. Connor shook his head minutely.

"Alright." Haytham gave a small, nervous chuckle that sounded odd from his throat. "This will be very strange, then." And with that, he moved his now slick fingers along Connor's inner thigh, rubbing small circles that sent still more tension straight to Connor's cock. Connor set his head back, fingers curling into the blanket that had been shuffled aside, gripping the scratchy wool tightly as Haytham's hand cupped his ass. Strange was an apt word for the whole situation, he decided.

But it got stranger. The very tips of Haytham's fingers brushed against Connor's entrance and he let out a short, startled breath, his hips rising unconsciously from the cot as he pressed his legs into Haytham's shoulders. Though it wasn't something that would have occurred to him independently, there was something pleasant about the direction he was heading. His body seemed to know what it wanted. As Haytham slowly began massaging his opening, finger and thumb, Connor moaned quietly, arching closer.

"God, you're beautiful," Haytham praised, and, one hand braced on Connor's hipbone, he slowly slid one finger of the other in, breaching the rim with a smoothness that caught Connor's breath in his throat before he let it out, keening.

For a few moments, Haytham left it, only curling his finger in small rotations, stretching and teasing nerves Connor had scarcely been aware could feel so strongly. Curving his back upward, Connor rocked experimentally against Haytham, pushing deeper, and moaned again, gratified with the fullness he felt. And yet he needed more.

"Alright thus far?" Haytham queried, his patience almost annoying considering the fiery need shooting through Connor. Connor nodded hastily, giving a small whimper as he flexed against Haytham's finger. He was rewarded almost immediately with a second, circling his hole, smooth, cool aloe aiding as it slipped inside, more quickly than the first. Connor tightened around the new girth, feeling a momentary pain that made him grimace before he began to adjust. Quiet pulses of pleasure channeled straight from Haytham's fingers to his neglected cock, which was beginning to bead with drops of precum.

Haytham began slowly working his fingers further in, and back again, starting up a steady rhythm that had Connor breathing in short bursts, rocking back against him. He was so tight, every movement had him shuddering. Haytham quickened the pace now, fingers delving knuckle-deep, and the tips rubbed expertly against something in Connor that had him whining and wriggling with desperation. "Haytham," he cried, pulling still deeper with his legs, anchoring Haytham inside him. The Templar massaged that spot with careful attention, but only for a few rapturous moments, during which Connor's ears began to ring, before he slowly started to withdraw.

"Haytham, no!" Connor objected, painfully aware of the need in his voice. He started to push himself upright, but Haytham pushed him back roughly, jolting his shoulder badly. Even this pain, however, coursed through his veins now with nothing but lusty need, and he lay still, hips bucking instinctively, though he met no satisfaction.

"Patience," Haytham murmured. The older man traced a hand over his chest, along his sternum, and down to his belly, muscles tight, brushed fingers admiringly over his aching, cum-slick cockhead, before taking up the vial of aloe once more. Connor watched, helpless, as Haytham poured a good portion into one palm, and, taking his own cock in hand, began to slick up, causing Connor to whine low in his throat with anticipation.

Haytham's was large, large enough to worry Connor in passing, but at the same time, to make him all the more eager, and as he lined up, Connor found himself leaning into the touch. There would be plenty of time to worry about all the atrocities they were committing later -- at the moment all he needed was Haytham to fill him again. The Templar delivered, gently but steadily pressing his cock against Connor, the slick aloe doing little to help at first. He was too small, and Haytham too big. His nerves began to shiver in anticipation of pain if he continued, and yet he needed him to, and he rocked plaintively, small noises of need escaping his lips.

Haytham mirrored his movements, making small circles with his hips, edging little by little, until with a sudden push that made Connor yelp, he was inside. The pressure was incredible, too much and not nearly enough all at once, and Connor clenched around him, panting. Though he wasn't sure he could take more, the echo of perfection when Haytham had found that small spot inside him spurred him on, and he edged against him experimentally, finding that the fullness could indeed expand, becoming even headier.

This new closeness proved enough to shatter Haytham's reserve. As Connor slowly accommodated what he'd already been given, Haytham began to press in earnest, pushing deeper with a roughness that left Connor burning and shuddering at once. For a moment, Connor could only absorb the new sensations, as Haytham allowed him pause, but all too soon, he pulled back, slowly, excruciatingly, before pushing in again, much more quickly, much harder, and Connor wanted to yell, but clamped his jaw tight as a rough rhythm set in.

Haytham's hands clutched bruisingly at Connor's hips, forcing himself deeper with every thrust. The fear surfaced that this had been a horrible mistake, that it would be too much, that Connor would be injured. The fiery pain that accompanied Haytham's every move was waning, however, replaced with ripples of ecstasy as Haytham took him to the hilt. Hot cum spilled from Connor's tip, drops spattering his stomach as his nerves overloaded.

That strange, unfair spot inside Connor throbbed and he tightened around Haytham's cock desperately with every push, until he could feel every inch of his body and nothing at all. An attempt at expressing this fell short, coming out only as a piteous mewl, but he gathered himself, feeling everything wire-taut with tension as Haytham heaved above him. "Ha--Haytham," Connor breathed. "I need more. Faster."

If he'd thought Haytham had lost his caution before, the wildness that met him now was beyond words. Thrust after thrust, filling Connor so that he thought he'd burst, and yet he pushed into it, moaning and keening in ways he'd not have thought himself capable, as Haytham hit that perfect target again and again, careening him over the edge until, with a cry most unfitting a stealthy Assassin, Connor's vision shuddered, white light pouring into the corners of his eyes, and his cock, which had been so neglected, found release in the coursing pleasure that blinded him. He was vaguely aware, as every drop he had splattered across his torso, that Haytham was still going, though more slowly now, steady strokes that massaged every goodness the world could offer through him in waves. Connor murmured incoherently, gratitude and a bizarrely strong affection overtaking him for the man that had caused this.

What before had felt impossible now he took with warm welcome as Haytham thrust once more, as deeply as Connor could feel, and the drowsy lethargy creeping through his limbs, his mind, was not enough to completely omit the hot pouring of the Templar's seed from his awareness. Following was a cold emptiness, a craving, consoled only by the impossible pleasure that still blanketed him, as Haytham withdrew, more cum spurting in strands across his ass and thigh, spilling from his hole as intoxicating tranquility overtook him.

Haytham gently guided his numb legs back to the level of the cot, and ran those wonderful hands along his thighs, smearing cum in the process. And he kissed Connor's hip, his cock, and this time there was no fear, no panic, no visions -- only peace and warmth as Haytham lapped at the cooling drops that coated him. "My poor boy," Haytham chuckled, sucking a dark mark against Connor's rib and making him breathe shortly against the feeling that normally would have registered as pain. Now it was only an intensity of pleasure. "Such a mess."

And he pulled the blanket over them again, curling around Connor in a way that reminded the Assassin of a dog guarding something particularly tasty. Sleep was threatening his consciousness, and with a relief he hadn't felt in years, he realized he could give in to it, could simply bask in this strange contentment, safe under Haytham's watch. "Thank you," he whispered.

Haytham's only response was a gentle kiss against his brow, and a firm hand caressing his hair as he drifted away. In the final dizzying moments of waking, Connor thought he saw a golden glow surrounding the Templar, ethereal and fiery, like staring into the sun.


	23. What the Cat Dragged In

 

Haytham lay silently for what seemed like unending, dozing years, face nuzzled close to Connor's. He marveled that he was allowed this closeness. He listened to his son's deep breaths, peaceful and reassuring. Despite the pain Haytham knew Connor was in, he was sleeping like the dead. A soft smile crossed his lips as he brushed a few stray hairs from the Assassin's face. It was good to see him at ease.

A drowning voice from decades past was trying to force itself up for air, reminding him that he didn't deserve this. That he wasn't worthy of any of this. Even now, he should be skulking about the camp, looking for a good opportunity to off Washington, and scanning for any unattended plans or letters to confiscate. He could question Connor about a good many vital things, things that would aid his order in leaps and bounds. And yet here he lay, desperate to stay deserving of a trust he had no business even glimpsing. But Connor had given him everything freely.

That was a difference Haytham had not anticipated between them. This boy was not stupid: he knew the dangers, of trusting Haytham with talk, and with the fragile weakness sex demanded each show the other. Connor simply hadn't cared. He'd thrown it all aside for the chance to be held. Haytham sighed quietly. Perhaps it wasn't so different.

His thoughts wound haphazardly to his own father. He had more often been absent than present, and yet, in a way, it was Haytham that felt he'd never been home. He knew it was selfish to wallow in loathing over the man's distance. But some things were simply merited. Lying next to Connor, he made a silent promise. He might damn this boy, ruin him, break him, scar him, but he would never abandon him. Perhaps what they were doing now would spiral them into hell's darkest corners. But at least they'd go together. He would do nearly anything to give his son a kind memory or two.

This perverted affection, he knew, would catch up with them eventually. Even now, the otherworldly key in his coat pocket across the tent was ever-present in his mind. It had been so long since he'd first set sail for this world, and he was no closer to realizing his goals. Having to put the hunt aside had clawed at him. But there were other goals to achieve in the New World. With all the chaos, the colonies were sorely in need of a guiding hand of order.

Connor stirred and cleared his throat. Haytham shifted to look at him better as he woke. "A good nap?" He asked quietly.

"I didn't dream at all," Connor answered. This seemed to please him. Then, after a foggy moment of collecting himself, he asked, throat dry, "What time is it?"

"It's been a few hours," Haytham told him, and sat up, hating to put distance between them. "We probably ought to get dressed in earnest."

As if these words had only just jolted him back into their reality, Connor's eyes widened, and he pulled the blanket close around him. He murmured something quiet and un-English.

Haytham hesitated for a moment, not wanting to leave the warmth of the cot. But then he stood and began dressing, deliberately allowing Connor the privacy of being unobserved and unquestioned as he sat there.

A few moments of unnerving silence later, Haytham pulled on his coat, straightening it and flicking various spots from it with an obsession born from childhood. He could hear Connor rustling about, finally able to operate. Soon enough, the two were hobbling out of the tent: Haytham limping from his leg, and Connor seeming to have developed a very slight limp of his own.

Snow was melting everywhere outside, and defenses were impeccable. Men stood at the ready, guns hoisted over shoulder, all around the borders of the camp. Towards the center, hordes of them stood discussing strategy: among them was Washington. Haytham swallowed down a sudden rising of bile at the sight of the man. He wasn't truly a terrible leader in _every_ regard. But everything that had come to surround him -- all the arguments, the struggles he'd caused . . . associations made him repugnant. He wanted the man dead. Charles wanted it more. God, Charles. Numbness crept through his feet, in the slushy snow, up through his legs and arms.

He shambled along to sit beside Connor near one of the fires. He knew he should be listening with sharpened ears, but thoughts of Charles swirled unfairly through his mind. The docks in Boston, and Charles' overeager voice ringing through him. The way he smiled, laughed loud and free, the first time they went exploring together. Images of Haytham swinging from post to post high over Charles' curls, calling down to him as the poor man raced to catch up. Dropping down on him from the eve of their inn window, crushing the breath from him. And then yanking him around the corner, into a dim alley where he ensured it was another good few minutes before Charles regained that breath.

"Master Kenway." A voice broke in at last, and he straightened, looking to the owner. It was Blake.

"Sir," Haytham said, unsure what context he had missed that warranted the address.

"We've sent scouts out to determine whether we ought to advance or hold our current defenses. They've not returned."

Connor leaned closer to him, as if to add something, but said nothing.

"We need a recovery group sent out. Is your leg healing well?"

Haytham nearly laughed out loud at the idea of him gallivanting off into the mud after a few scouts too stupid to maintain stealth on their own, let alone in the condition he was in. No, his leg was not healing well. He'd barely had time to rest at all yet, and these things took time, favorable heritage lending aid to quick regeneration or not. Bottling these concerns, however, he said simply, "I'm afraid I'm not your man today, Blake. I've a lot of mending yet before I'll be any use."

Connor nodded but contributed nothing. It was obvious he wouldn't be able to help with this. His shoulder would take much longer to be in working order again.

"Furthermore, I've business in Boston of an urgent nature that I must return to," Haytham said. If he could get out of the camp in a timely fashion and leave this place, these people, behind, he was sure his head would clear, and he could reevaluate his rapidly sinking motivation. It was so difficult to see what he needed to do with Connor's worried eyes studying him.

Washington took a few paces away from a man whose name Haytham didn't know, and looked their way. Connor stood up slowly and approached him. Haytham wanted to listen, but forced himself to remain. Blake had taken his mention of Boston with the expected irritation, but did not object verbally. Once Connor was done having his little tete-a-tete with Washington, he would pull him aside to sort out what needed sorting in order for him to leave. What exactly that was, he wasn't sure.

As the men talked, Haytham found his vision blurring, sinking into the blues of their coats, the brown of the feathers hanging from Connor's sleeves, flickering in the light breeze that blew hints of spring across his face. What was wrong with him? Dozens of voices sounded in his mind, overlapping, cutting out the chatter of the soldiers, the urgent whispers, the murmuring of Washington and the Assassin. Foggy, half-formed images of his father's face shifted into view: Edward Kenway, kneeling down to ruffle Haytham's hair while the boy cried. Haytham saw himself outside of his own body, a young, ragtag little brat. "You've got to pay attention," Edward said. "Never ever let your guard down. Not for a moment, Hayth."

As soon as the memory arrived, it was blown out of view by a rushing of wind, as if leaping from the highest steeple in the colonies, crashing into ice-cold waves. He shook himself, trying desperately to realign his sight with the present. The forms of the soldiers around him began to come into focus again, but as they did, he noticed with crawling horror that they were all glowing, red like devils, some blue like frozen corpses. Eagle vision -- the gift from father to son. He stared, heart frosting over, at Connor's back, lit up in yellow sunlight, too bright to look at directly. "No," he whispered.

He forced the images away, muting them with the quietness of reality. He pushed down too the thought that signs given through the vision were no less real, but simply less pleasant. "Connor," he barked, standing abruptly. "We need to move."

Connor turned, surprised, and Haytham watched his suspicious brown eyes narrow. He looked back to Washington, murmured an excuse, and followed as Haytham grabbed his arm roughly and pulled him along toward where the horses were tied. Haytham was half-surprised the boy cooperated, but the sickness he was feeling must have been evident.

"What is it?" Connor asked, his tone both irritated and anxious.

"I need to tell you . . . a great many things. And I need you to listen, without questions, until I've reached the end." Haytham let out slow breaths as they walked, coming to stand before the line of horses. "I am going to Boston after we've finished." He stopped talking, struggling to express the apprehension that slithered through his veins at the idea of leaving. "I'm not sure we'll meet again after I leave, Connor. If we do . . ."

Connor didn't say anything. For a moment, Haytham wasn't sure he'd been listening. But he stood attentively, and, after a moment of quiet, he waved one hand lightly to prompt Haytham on.

"There are things I'm meant to do, that I do not want to." Haytham began again, feeling heat creeping under his collar. He had come to the colonies for one reason. To find the precursor locations. With that hope dashed, it seemed unreal that he was still wandering these lands, homeless and unrooted. He used to think he would some day return to England: see his old home again, perhaps see the girls of his youth, marry one . . . or maybe he'd just work on repairing that old ship his father had loved more than his own son. What did the order's demands mean any longer? "I have no desire to continue along the path that's been set for me. But neither have I ever been one to defect."

Connor's mouth was set in a hard line, but he did not interrupt. Sometimes Connor's lack of response was good, helping Haytham feel he had room to continue. Now it only felt sullen, uninviting.

"If I do not leave this instant, I will kill someone," Haytham stated after the pause. He waited for the anger, or the disgust, some sign of righteous Assassin-ly disapproval. But Connor just nodded.

"We should leave then."

Haytham stared at him. Warmth sparked against the numbness in his fingers, yet he scowled, mistrust overruling slim hope. "I hardly need you to escort me away. I'm not going to turn around and slink back the moment you turn your back to me."

"I will come with you," Connor said evenly. He offered no reason, only the proposition, which Haytham agreed to after a beat.

Connor retrieved Freyja, and set about tacking her up. Haytham set his jaw, realizing he had no horse of his own now. He couldn't "borrow" one either: every one of them was needed here.

Obviously anticipating the problem, Connor suggested they ride double. "It is not that far, and Freyja is well rested."

Haytham had his doubts about the mare carrying two full-grown men to Boston, but he didn't object. There was a flicker of uncertainty as to who would take the reins, but it was easily cleared up by the fact that Connor's shoulder shouldn't take the strain. Haytham climbed aboard and settled into the creaking leather. The saddle was simple, and he could easily recognize it as home-crafted. Not a bad job, either.

He leaned to give Connor a hoist by his good arm, and, after a moment of awkward settling, he was perched behind Haytham, pressed very close so that he could wrap his arm around for stability.

"You don't need to tell them you're leaving?" Haytham asked. He tried to keep resentment of Connor's entanglement with the rebels from his tone, but only partially succeeded.

Connor didn't sound troubled, however. "They know."

As they set off at a brisk walk, Haytham found that his mind was indeed clearing rapidly. The cool air held a hint of damp to it, that whispered of spring, and the bright fields comforted him, as did Connor's hold around his waist, and the press of his chest against his back. It was highly impractical, and he couldn't help thinking they looked a strange sight: one man with a broken shoulder, the other a dislocated knee, sharing a tiny mare and trotting along to Boston. But it was a relief to get away from the suffocation of the camp, and point Freyja toward the familiarity of home. Or as close to home as he could know any longer.

They didn't talk for some time -- it was Haytham that finally broke the quiet as they plodded on, and only then to suggest that they could try a trot. "My leg's been better, but there's little pain."

Connor agreed, his voice close to Haytham's ear, and Haytham gently prodded Freyja onward.

The question of whether to leave Connor somewhere close to his own estate or take him straight into the city surfaced. Obviously Haytham couldn't bring him too far in, or there would be trouble, from Haytham's enemies or friends alike. Yet the thought was there, unbidden. That he could keep Connor close. Take him straight to an inn, and hide away. Just for a few days, maybe a week. So that they could recover in quiet. That was all.

It seemed Haytham had spent his entire life traveling. Running this errand or that for the Templars, without being granted a moment's peace for private matters. Even as a boy, much of the enjoyment of youth had been rung dry with chores or decorum. Of course, he truly had been back and forth quite a bit in the last couple months, from Boston to here, from there back again. With a small shake of the head, he decided this was by far the most pleasant journey in some time. Companionship made a great difference.

With the wagon, their previous trip had taken far longer: waylaid by royalists, and of course Connor's injury. This time, Haytham was relatively certain they could get there within a day. They had a late start though, what with their eventful morning. "How far from here do you suppose your estate is?" He ventured.

"I am not sure. We could probably make it by eight o'clock."

Haytham felt Connor shift against him, clearly struggling to keep balance with little room and only one arm for grip. He straightened himself to give Connor as stout an anchor as he could, and felt the Assassin curl tighter, warm and firm. This would be a long ride.

Freyja's footing was excellent with the melting snow, traction from the gravel and grass underneath more than enough to allow Haytham some relaxation. Trotting wasn't a good pace for stability, and he considered urging her into a canter, but didn't want to stress either of their injured joints. "Just tell me when to turn," he said. He knew vaguely where Connor lived, but had never been on the estate itself. He wondered if he would be allowed there now, or if he would have to leave Connor at the borders.

Connor didn't reply. Haytham wondered if he was feeling guilt for leaving the brewing battle. It seemed likely, considering his hero complex. The boy couldn't help but feel responsible and involved in every struggle he saw. Really, Haytham should be pleased he was able to pull him away at all. Connor needed to rest, to heal, away from the unending conflict.

The fact that now would be a perfect time to kill the Assassin was stubbornly ignored. He wanted Connor well and able, whatever that indicated about his own loyalties. The level of indulgence he was basking in these days should bother him. But he would save that for a quieter time.

Connor's arm, secure around his waist, put pressure against his hips with every sway of the horse, and Haytham allowed himself to enjoy the feeling uninhibited while he could. He leaned back a bit, pressing into Connor, and was rewarded with a quiet breath of surprise by his ear. They had ridden double once before, only so far as to return to the wagon after Haytham had gone looking for Connor. But it had been a short ride, and tense. This was very different.

The ride was indeed long, and twice they had to stop and dismount to stretch and recoup. Haytham examined Connor's shoulder the second time, having him discard his coat. He pulled back the neckline of his shirt and frowned at the purple and blackened skin, tinged with yellow here and there. There was a strange indentation to the bone that concerned him more than he expressed, and it was clearly swollen and stiff.

"Would you like to pause long enough to work it a bit?" Haytham asked doubtfully. He wanted to keep moving, but travel was the last thing Connor's arm needed.

Connor sighed, considering. "It will not improve enough to make a difference," he decided. "But I could try riding in front. It might make the jolting less."

Haytham wasn't sure about Connor reining one-handed, or how much the change would help his pain levels, but he didn't disagree. He knelt down by Freyja's side and made a cup with his hands for Connor to step on, and the Assassin clambered aboard. Haytham gave slightly under his weight, but they managed, and in another moment he was up behind Connor.

He settled in close, his thighs tight against Freyja's sides and Connor's hips. He waited for Connor to ensure he was steady, and wrapped his arms around the boy's waist, hands resting on either hip. Once they'd started moving again, Haytham was relieved to find that Connor's balance seemed fine in the new position. Now that Haytham had freedom of his hands, he experimentally slid his along Connor's thighs, where he rested them, fingers curled inward. Connor said nothing, but Haytham thought he felt a slight leaning back against him.

As Connor had predicted, they made it to the edge of his estate a quarter before eight o'clock. They pulled up at a trot, and Connor peered ahead to where the top line of rooftop was just visible in the evening gloom, through the dense foliage that surrounded the property.

Surely this was where they would part ways. Haytham felt the urge to say something to prevent that, but he kept quiet, no useful words coming.

Connor was still looking into the trees attentively and Haytham wondered what he was hoping -- or what he was afraid of -- seeing.

In explanation, Connor murmured, "I wonder if Achilles is home."

"Your mentor," Haytham said, more of a statement than question. Connor nodded confirmation. "Well, if he is or isn't, I doubt you can tell from here."

Connor sighed in irritation, though mild, and clucked to Freyja. The mare plodded onward, closer to the house. Haytham stared at it as it came clearer into view, impressed. It was old, and a bit run down, but it was clear that this had once been a great mansion. That Connor called this home pleased him. Yet the house was foreign, dark and unknown. The house of an Assassin. What might that look like, inside? He knew it was silly to think it would be much different than any other house. But it felt as though it should be somehow.

Once they crested the small rise leading to the house, Haytham could see a modest stable set up to one side. It was toward this that Connor turned Freyja. They clumped into the slushy yard, darkness keeping Haytham from making out many details. He withdrew his hold on Connor, stiffness making him grimace as he swung down, boots thudding in the mud. Connor dropped the reins and, groaning with pain, began turning himself to slide down. Haytham reached to support him at the hips and slow his descent, and Connor fell heavily into him, stumbling. He yelped as his shoulder bumped Haytham, but recovered himself.

"That was too long a ride," he complained.

Haytham agreed, and gave Connor a comforting squeeze before turning to take Freyja's reins and lead her to the nearest post. He hitched her and removed her saddle swiftly, while Connor stood looking toward the house. Haytham followed his gaze. There were no lights to be seen and all was quiet. Yet it was fairly late, and seemed unlikely anyone living there would be out and about. "Does Achilles go out often?" He asked.

"Now and then. We will see if he is home soon enough." With that, Connor began limping tiredly toward the house. Haytham followed, cursing quietly at the dull aching of his leg. Having it bent for the entirety of the day had certainly not helped any with the recovery process.

When they reached the door, Connor tried the knob, and the door opened easily. This suggested to Haytham that someone was home.

The two entered, and Connor immediately set about lighting a small lamp on a side table in the foyer. Haytham looked around at the simple but elegant entrance, and felt a vague sense of distaste at treading on the fine wood floor in his muddy boots. Connor clearly thought nothing of it, however, for he moved onward into the house, tracking great clods of icy dirt in his wake.

"Achilles?" Connor called. The sound of his voice bounced eerily off the old walls, close and far away at the same time.

Haytham stood still at the door, waiting. He wondered if he should follow as Connor wandered into one of the rooms to one side, and then back into the hall. But he knew he would not be welcomed by anyone who was home. So he loitered.

Connor called again, more loudly. "Is anyone home?"

There was a quiet rustling from the upstairs, and Haytham's eyes jumped to the top of the small stairwell ahead. There was a thumping of feet, and what sounded like a cane. He squinted against the darkness as a figure appeared above.

"Connor. Finally decided to stop in."

The old Assassin's voice sounded dreary and bitter, and Haytham could easily imagine this man lecturing his son about the company he kept.

"Who is with you?" Achilles asked, though he sounded as though he already knew full well.

Connor hesitated to answer at first. Haytham nearly introduced himself, wanting to break the tension. But he held his tongue, acutely aware of the suspicious eyes peering down at him.

"Haytham Kenway," Connor said at last. Even in the middle of this discomfort, hearing his name from Connor's lips made Haytham smile, just at one corner.

Connor shuffled his feet, and then added, "He is hurt."

Achilles processed the situation while the two of them stood awkwardly, waiting for either yelling or permission to carry on. Haytham was rarely cowed by anyone, but in the gloom of this old, foreboding home, stared down by the seasoned Assassin, he found himself feeling strangely small -- something that hadn't happened in many years.

"It's just me here tonight, Connor," Achilles finally said. He sighed, exhaustion permeating the room. "Do you think you can care for him on your own? The help won't be back until tomorrow evening."

Haytham raised an eyebrow, multiple questions surfacing. "It's only my leg," he offered. Connor glanced at him, seeming to take comfort in having attention drawn away from himself. "I should be able to leave in the morning easily enough."

"Good, for that's when you will," Achilles murmured. He took a few steps down the stairwell, cane clicking on the old wood. "Connor, a word."

Connor gave Haytham a helpless look, exasperation clear, but he started up the stairs. As he made his way up, he shuffled uncomfortably against the pain movement brought him.

Haytham continued to stand, feeling more and more out of place. "I'll just . . . find a place to sit, then," he muttered to no one in particular. And as the two Assassins disappeared into an upstairs room, Haytham began exploring his new surroundings, feeling nothing so much as a pet rat in a house of cats. He was fairly confident he could overpower either Achilles, old and crippled as he was, or Connor, with his broken shoulder. And yet he felt threatened.

Shaking his head in confusion, he limped into what appeared to be a dining room. That would do. Anywhere to rest until Connor came to retrieve him and assign him a proper place to sleep. This would be a prime opportunity to prowl and hunt down useful information. But despite being in the enemy's very den, all Haytham had thought for was a soft pillow and a blanket or two, with Connor curled against his side.


	24. Daniel

Haytham wasn't sure when he'd passed out. He had waited in the dark dining room for what seemed hours, hearing only the occasional rise and fall of irritated voices above him.

But at some point, Connor had ghosted into the gloom beside him, and set a hand on his shoulder. He'd guided the exhausted Templar upstairs, limping step by step, to a beautiful chamber that at one point likely had looked very grand, but was now only modestly furnished. One of the furnishings was a large four-poster bed, which Haytham had all but fallen into. He was sure Connor must be even more tired than he, and yet he couldn't muster the energy to do more than lie there, head sinking into the soft, cool pillow.

In the early glow of morning sifting through the shuttered windows, Haytham stretched groggily. He remembered Connor removing his boots last night, and after that, everything was blank. He hadn't slept so well in years, he reflected. And it was with no small surge of satisfaction that, upon turning his head, he saw the young Assassin lounging, panther-like, across the other half of the bed, limbs in all directions. Haytham smiled. Connor had brought him home and straight to his own bedroom. It seemed almost satirical.

He closed his eyes, blinking away sweet sleep, and then began shifting towards an upright position. All of his muscles shrieked with pain, making it slow going, but eventually he was sitting. He gently moved his legs to hang over the edge of the bed, taking care not to jolt or pull on his injured leg. Connor did not stir beside him. Haytham was tempted, just for a moment, to reach out a hand to pet his jaw, but he did not want to wake him yet. He had investigating to do.

The house had a great many rooms that Haytham was able to clear relatively quickly. Upstairs was Connor's room, a room he presumed contained the unnerving old mentor, and another spare room that Connor clearly could have put Haytham in but didn't. His satisfaction rose as he descended the stairs, bare feet making little to no noise. There was little he could do about the way the old house creaked under his weight though, and he had to pause at the bottom momentarily to be sure no one had woken.

He made quick work of the dining room he'd glanced over the night previous, and the kitchen, which was brimming with provisions. Haytham took particular interest in a set of shelves laden with cheeses and salted meats, to say nothing of the jars of what he presumed to be jams, and even a few well-wrapped loaves of bread that had clearly been fresh-baked only a day or two prior. His stomach ached as he eyed the food. When had he last eaten? The soup by the campfire seemed very far away. Surely he'd eaten since then . . .

Haytham was just reaching for a near-lying loaf of bread when he heard the faintest creaking behind him. His breath caught and he whirled around, just in time to see Connor lunge forward, shoving him one-handed against the kitchen's wall. His head caught the side of the shelf above him bruisingly and he grunted; Connor pressed close, barring his arm across Haytham's chest, his wrist-blade cool against the Templar's throat.

"Did you think you could creep around all you liked while I slept?" Connor growled, eyes narrowed dangerously.

Haytham let his breathing steady from the initial surprise, and willed himself to relax under Connor's weight pushing into him, crushing him against the wall. Then he smiled sardonically. "Really, Connor. Do you think if I meant any harm I'd be in the kitchen?" True, he'd meant to continue straight on with his little investigation from here, but there was no need to acknowledge that.

The tension had to come back. Haytham knew that. They'd been warm, and they'd been close, and everything had faded away for a little while. But this paranoia, this suspicion, it was only away for a blink, a short sleep. Surely now they would get back to killing each other. In Connor's fancy mansion kitchen. How lovely.

But Connor, dark eyes boring into him, slowly relaxed, though he didn't allow any new distance between their hard-pressed bodies. A hesitant smile started to form and his eyes widened again, shining with mischief. "I suppose you could be poisoning something," he offered weakly.

Haytham smirked, gently pressing back against Connor's hips and thigh, taking some control of the situation. "Or perhaps stealing your bread, loaf by loaf, holding a slow siege?"

It was at this that Connor completely cracked, and for the first time, Haytham heard a warm, sunny chuckle escape him. It was light, pleasant, gossamer and so very, very suiting. Connor tilted his head to one side and brushed his cheek against Haytham's, in an odd sort of nuzzle, like one cat might give another, and Haytham turned enough to kiss his jaw before he retreated to arm's length.

"Haytham," Connor said hesitantly. There was still a pleasant tone in his voice, but it was tinged by the worry lines of his brow and mouth. "I am not ready." His eyes shifted to focus on a point in the wall behind Haytham. "For you to leave. I do not want that yet."

Haytham frowned. He had to get to Boston immediately, snap himself out of this strange new pattern of stupidity, and get on with what he was meant to accomplish. But he knew what his son meant. He had no desire to leave Connor's side, and no motivation to return to the Templars. His fondness for Charles was there still, but it mulled quietly now, like the embers from last night's hearthfire, cooling to a dull greyish that's blotted out by dawnlight streaming through window panes. The temptation was high to simply abandon ship. To take Connor and run, God only knew where. Anywhere.

"I'm not either," he said at last, keenly aware of Connor's anxiety as he stood in wait of reply.

Haytham had lost Ziio because their worlds couldn't mix, and neither was willing to yield their obligations for the other's. The Templar was not willing to let that happen again. He knew he tended to be a stubborn man, and Connor had certainly inherited this trait, from both his parents. But they couldn't butt heads forever, arguing over ideals and morals. Something had to give, or they would lose each other altogether.

"Achilles will never let you rest here longer," Connor ventured. "But I may be able to go to Boston with you."

"No," Haytham objected immediately. "It's too dangerous. There's too many ways you could get killed. Too many people who hate you, or me, or love me and would hate you for it, and there's bounties to consider, and besides--"

Connor leaned forward forcefully, pressing Haytham hard into the wall with all his body weight, and kissed him: a deep, urgent kiss that made Haytham draw in a sharp breath which he had to hold for a considerably long amount of pushing, nipping, pulling, pressing, need. Finally, Connor broke away, centimeters only, just enough to whisper, "You should not worry. I can protect you."

Haytham started to protest that that was not at all what he'd meant to imply, and that he wasn't worried about his own skin one bit, but with a smirk, Connor simply turned away and started to leave the kitchen. "Have some breakfast," he suggested. "I will tell Achilles we are leaving."

Haytham had no idea what was happening. He blinked, let out a sigh of exasperation and arousal, and allowed himself to sink to the floor against the wall, knees bent. This was an unexpected manifestation of Connor, and he was none too sure how he felt about trotting this version straight into the Lion's Den, arm in arm.

Haytham questioned whether he really  _did_ need to return to Boston. Wouldn't it be easier to break away now, without saying a word? Connor would never go for it. Even if Haytham had it in his bones to defect like that, the headstrong Assassin would never abandon his precious mission. And, the Templar had to admit, even to himself, with a small shake of the head, he could never betray his own order either. Not without tying up loose ends, sorting his various affairs, business and pleasure. But if he  _helped_ Connor accomplish his mission . . . then he would be free. They both would be.

The dark thought sat ominously in his skull, rank and wicked, and the tired man closed his eyes, letting out shuddering breath after breath. If Charles was out of the picture, they could both walk away.

 _But with Connor gone . . ._ unbidden, the memory of the golden light surrounding Connor came back to Haytham. His true target, marked clearer than the sun by eagle vision.  _Everything that's fallen away between Charles and I could be put right._

He knew it was convoluted but loyalty helped soften the treacherous edges of the idea. But there was only so much anything could do for the treachery of Charles himself. Haytham thought of the last time he'd gone back. How they'd fought. He swallowed. Stood. Started fixing a breakfast of bread and jam, though his stomach turned. This trip would be telling, one way or another, and he was sure that, though his head now felt full of nattering insects, soon he would have clarity. Maybe Connor was the key that would finally unfetter him from all of this.


	25. Lanterns

There was so much noise. An absolute cacophony of gruff yelling, grunting, arguing, and loud roaring laughter that belted off every corner of the place, accompanied incessantly by singing and playing from one end, and the irregular shout from the barkeep when someone's drink was ready. Connor swallowed hard, very conscious of the heads that turned their way when Haytham and he entered the inn. He was glad for the firm anchor of Haytham's shoulder against his as they stood in the doorway, and yet, terror gripped him should anyone recognize him in the Templar's company.

"This is going to be hell," Haytham had warned him. Achilles had said similar, as soon as he heard of their plan to prance off to Boston as if on holiday. Indeed, his mentor had had a great many things to say about it, ranging from "it's ludicrous, you're both moon-mad hares" to "you'll be gutted by the first man who recognizes you. _Either_  of you."

They anticipated recognition, though. Haytham had confessed to Connor as they entered the city's outskirts that he was tired of being told who he could and couldn't associate with by those who supposedly esteemed him so very much, and that he planned to put a stop to such nonsense. But he was clearly nervous too, for as they stepped further into the crowded common area, Connor could just see a slight tremble run through him.

"I'll get a room," Haytham murmured. "You just . . . wait. Over there." He gestured vaguely to a bare spot along the wall sufficiently distant from two different groups of large men who were carrying on with one another. Connor nodded and strode quickly to his designated spot, glad to have his back to something.

Haytham spent about half a minute at the counter, put down some money, and came to retrieve Connor, who had thankfully been able to wait at least that long without getting into trouble. He had no idea what he was doing, in this building full of white people, in the middle of Boston, in plain sight, in the company of someone who could very well stab him in the back as soon as the door of their new room closed. Achilles was right, this was mad. And yet, it was exhilarating too, and he clung to that.

The two men stood against the wall for a short while, taking in the scene, and as the noise became less foreign, Connor began to relax. "Is it always this lively?" He asked.

Haytham leaned closer to be heard. "Often. Particularly when it's cold out. Everyone holes up for drinks."

Connor nodded, wishing for the first time in a long time, for a drink of his own. The smell of liquor wafted through the air nauseatingly.

"This is where Charles Lee was last?" He asked eventually, scanning the crowd as if he expected the Templar to jump out at them at any moment.

Haytham's mouth set in a grim line and he took Connor's good arm, tugging him lightly toward a stairwell that presumably led to the bedrooms. "Yes. Let's go where it's quieter so that we can talk properly."

And they set off, carving a neat line through the crowded room. Connor could smell the beer on the people they passed, and at one point a particularly large and oblivious man turned around suddenly, bumping Connor hard, and, unluckily, landing the most of the blow on his injured shoulder. Connor cried out, but the noise was swallowed by everything around them. Haytham stopped, roughly shoving the man away. "Oy!" he said, glaring. "Mind your path, you stupid bilge-gnat."

The stranger stood up straighter, a snarl playing on his lips. Connor didn't know what a 'bilge-gnat' was, but it was clearly not very nice. Despite the shade of red the other man's face was turning, Haytham yanked him onward and they escaped before a fight could break out in earnest. Relief washed over Connor as his feet hit the creaking wooden stairs and they shuffled up. While warmed by Haytham's snippy defense of him, it filled him with anxiety in such a strange environment, and in their conditions.

"Right. We'll get a good rest, and tomorrow I'll see what I can do about locating my frie--" Haytham stopped talking abruptly, and at first Connor looked around, thinking Haytham had heard or seen something. But then he continued. "My associates."

The Templar led Connor along a narrow hallway, lit with occasional wall-lanterns, until they reached a door that Haytham identified as correct, though Connor wasn't sure how. He glanced at the door dubiously, and realized a number was carved clumsily into the frame on one side. Haytham produced a small key from his pocket and let them in.

It was cold inside, and dark, but it smelled clean, if a bit dusty, and Connor let out a quiet breath that seemed to release a great deal of his nerves with it.

Haytham stepped inside first, and immediately went in search of a lamp, which he found easily enough and, after a moment, lit. A flickering pool of orangeish light licked at the walls, coloring a very soft and inviting looking bed in warmth. There was also a modest set of shelves to one side, a desk, and three chairs. "This is a nice room," Connor decided, somewhat surprised.

"Yes, I quite like this place," Haytham agreed. "Though its central location can be more irritating than convenient at times."

Connor thought about his father, who had been born on British soil, spending so many long years in places like this. He wondered, for just a moment, if Haytham had any home of his own, or if he'd spent these decades simply living at inns, or staying with friends. It seemed like a dismal life. And yet Haytham seemed at ease in Boston; the city had clearly grown on him. As they'd entered it, the Templar had pointed out numerous spots of interest: small book shops tucked in corners, the printing shop, a tea house he'd recommended very highly, and an area he'd explained was usually where markets were held. Connor had been to Boston before, many times, but he'd never been shown it. Not by someone who held the affection for the city that his father did.

Connor wandered to the bedside, and, after a moment of awkward hesitation, sat, just on the very edge.

Haytham came over and joined him. "Regretting this yet?" He asked, a hint of humor in his tone, though the older man's eyes betrayed the very real nervousness behind the question.

"No," Connor said quietly. "I am worried. But I do not regret this. I think this could be good, not just for us, but for everyone." He had been thinking a lot on the way to Boston, and the more he'd tossed the idea around in his head, the more he'd become convinced that he and Haytham could work together to bring an end to all this mindless fighting. If they could just reach a compromise between their orders, or some sort of treaty, for a while . . .

"Don't get your hopes up too high," Haytham warned. Surprising Connor with his easiness, he leaned back to lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Studying it, he said more softly, "This could still end in blood."

"We should talk about Charles Lee." Connor knew it wouldn't sit well that Haytham's friend's name was brought up at the mention of violence, but the truth of the matter was that the treacherous man could not continue breathing. They simply had to come to a mutual agreement on that point.

"I know," Haytham acknowledged. But he didn't say anything further. The silence stretched languidly in the dim room.

Connor tried again. "I will not bother to list his crimes. I know that you know them." So far Haytham remained silent. "And I will not try to persuade you further to see things my way. What we need is a compromise."

"I agree," Haytham said, more quietly still. "But what do you propose? I won't let you hurt him."

"I understand that." Connor sighed and leaned back to lie beside Haytham, gazing up at the ceiling with him. "Despite all he has done, you care for him. But he must pay."

Haytham started to interject, but Connor pushed on. "More important is that he is stopped from causing any more harm. He is too dangerous to run free."

"What, you want to lock him up? Post a guard, keep him caged until he rots?" Haytham snorted, sitting up halfway to glare at Connor. "You'd never manage it, and if you did, I'd probably end up letting him out, and if I didn't, he'd get out himself and maim you in your sleep."

"Are you done?" Connor asked, raising an eyebrow.

Haytham scowled at him a second before shrugging and flopping down again. "It's not an exhaustive list, no. But my point is, I won't see Charles harmed. And you won't see him harm. I'm not sure there's a peaceable solution."

Connor left it at that for a few moments, mulling over the new-found ability to lie down beside Haytham and discuss something that before had been so thorny with something at least vaguely resembling comfort. Yes, it was still tense. But there was a distinct feeling that Haytham wanted to work with him now, where before there had only been butting of heads.

The Assassin knew deep down that Charles Lee needed to die. He wouldn't be satisfied until it came to pass. And he suspected his father was fully aware of this. Yet the Templar insisted on denial, dancing around it, pushing for another option that simply wasn't there. The man was dead-set on keeping Charles alive, and on ignoring his treachery and cruelty. "You love him," Connor remarked, voice soft.

Orange light flickered across Haytham's features as Connor chanced a look in his direction. The older man looked pensive, troubled, but not angry. He did not return Connor's glance, and instead stared all the harder at the ceiling, as if he could see something helpful in its knots and whirls. Finally, he swallowed, and, after a minute hesitation, answered.

"I do," he said. It was obvious the words pained him, though whether from fear of the pain any future solution would cause him, knowing that attachment, or because the attachment itself was unpleasant, Connor couldn't discern.

"I know I cannot persuade you against your Order," Connor pushed gently. "But however important Charles is, to the Templars, or to you, he is an evil man. He has no remorse, and he is selfish. I am not sure he loves you . . ."

Haytham's eyes snapped to his, glinting dangerously. "You know nothing about it," he challenged, sitting up and leaving the bed to pace with agitation. "You don't know him like I do. You haven't watched him, watched him give everything for me-- for the Order."

"Everything," Connor repeated, frowning. He watched his father, apprehension crawling. "But not so that you could be happy, or so that the order could gain--"

"What have you seen of him?" Haytham cut him off. "What do you know, with all your backwoods wisdom?" He demanded. "Nothing. You don't know him." The repeated words echoed off the close walls, pounding in Connor's ears.

"Haytham," Connor argued right back, refusing to let the Templar's sideways comment at his origins bog him down. "I know enough of this man to know he is selfish, through to the bones. If he does things for you, if he gives things up, it is to keep you under his sway. To gain from your status, and your affections."

Haytham let those words settle in the tense air for a moment. Then he turned, standing over Connor. "Are you implying he's using me and I'm not even aware of it?" He sneered. "Really, Connor? Do you think, after this long, I don't know when someone's twisting me up?"

Connor wanted to say that yes, after so long with the Templars, it must be difficult to know when anyone was genuine or not, when anyone truly showed concern, or only concern for what would happen to their own affairs if one of their pawns was removed from the equation. But he held his tongue, heart thudding against his chest.

"You think you can just waltz in, kill a few reds with me, and suddenly you understand everything that's led my life to this," Haytham continued, gritting his teeth and forcing control into his tone, though it had a flinty tinge that made Connor want to reach for his knife.

Feeling nothing so much as a fox in a trap, he swallowed down his fear. "That was not what I meant," he tried without much hope. "I only meant . . . I have seen parts of him that perhaps you have not. We do not treat every person the same."

At first, this seemed to irritate Haytham further, as he shook his head sharply, as if trying to avoid some pesky gnat. But then his features softened, and he drew in a long breath. "He did lie to me, about something I never would have thought he could," he allowed. "I trusted him. When . . . when Ziio and I . . ." again he faltered. "I thought he understood," he said at last. The words sounded feeble.

Connor reached out a hand, unsure what he intended, and for a second he just sat there, reaching for Haytham, before the Templar extended his own hand, clasping them. He allowed Connor to gently tug him back to the bed. To his surprise, instead of sitting down beside him, Haytham knelt down in front of him. It was a peculiar sight.

Haytham placed a hand on Connor's knee, and in a motion that sent a new jolt of panic through the Assassin, he set his forehead against Connor's leg, an image of defeat. "This is not how I felt, before," he murmured. "When I first came to American soil, I was so sure . . ."

Connor uncertainly placed a hand on Haytham's head, fingering the dark strands, interlaced with silver, that hung over one ear. He mused over the developments of the past months. Connor had always considered Haytham an enemy, since he learned of his existence. He was a Templar, cruel, merciless, unfeeling and selfish. When Haytham defended Charles, Connor knew it was because he was just as evil. Now he knew no such thing. What he saw here, in this quiet bedroom, was something other. A broken man, torn between love for a dear friend, and a loyalty to principle. Haytham had to have some true good in him, somewhere, to feel so conflicted.

"I've lost all my friends," Haytham said, voice monotone. "I cannot lose Charles." He knelt there, motionless, for another few moments, before slowly lifting his head to peer at Connor. His eyes looked different in the gloom . . . hollow, deep and dark, like a forest pool.

"He has killed too many innocents," Connor said as gently as he could. "He must pay for his crimes."

A slow smile crept over Haytham and he scoffed. "And why should I fare any different? I've murdered plenty myself, as you've seen well enough."

A moment passed while Connor deliberated on his response. "Because," he said eventually, "you acknowledge it. That it was murder. We have all done terrible things, Assassins, Templars . . . none of us are innocent. But those of us who think we are are the farthest gone."

By now, Haytham seemed to have composed himself decently, and he rose, straightening his clothes. "He and I are not different," he insisted, and sat beside Connor. "If you want him dead, you should still be after me."

"And yet, here we are," Connor responded, raising an eyebrow. But he thought of the glowing golden light he'd seen around Haytham. He knew that this man was his enemy, even now. However much he wanted it to be any other way.

Something about what he'd said seemed to strengthen Haytham's resolve, because the tell-tale crow's feet at the edges of his eyes were there and he chuckled, a much less cynical one than the scoff from before. "And yet, we remain," he said, almost to himself.

  
\---------------------

  
It was some time later, after the two had rested on the bed in silence, that there came a need to move. They had been content for a good while with nestling close, Haytham occasionally running hands along Connor's side or arm, and Connor nuzzling against the Templar's throat where it was particularly warm. It was a strange feeling, to have talked about something so gut-wrenching, yet lie together as if nothing were amiss. Yet, Haytham reflected, it wasn't particularly new for him; he spent a good deal of his life baring teeth in what others mistook for a smile.

Still, this wasn't like that. It wasn't a false comfort that he found now, engulfed in the smell of Connor's hair and sweat. It was real, and it was all-encompassing. It was not in contradiction to their earlier quarrel -- it was in spite of it.

But the two had made the mistake of getting a little too handsy as their energy returned, and now that Haytham was more or less on top of Connor, pressing bruising kisses along his neck, it was becoming clear they weren't going to get in a proper nap.

"Wait," Connor breathed as Haytham started to work at undressing him. "I . . . I want to do something."

Haytham pulled back, fixing him with an incredulous gaze. "What sort of something, because--"

Connor grinned, cutting him off: "I want to see the city. The stars."

For a beat, Haytham hesitated. The window shutters could easily be pulled open. But that wasn't what he meant. He wanted to be in the open. He toyed with that idea: the vulnerable danger of it pulsing through his blood, hardening him still further -- contrasted against the niggling tendrils of concern that whispered of Connor's past. The Assassin, who, by nature of his occupation, should embrace dark, secluded areas away from prying eyes, wanted to be exposed. It seemed from the way Connor held his breath, and his eyes shifted, that he was afraid of the tight confines of the room, the closed door.

Only a second ago, Connor had graced Haytham with one of his rare smiles, full and warm. But it was quickly overpowered by the nature of his request. This wasn't just some whimsical desire to dance by moonlight.

Mind made up, Haytham nodded. "Alright. Let's see if we can't get a bit higher." And he helped Connor up off the bed, ignoring the aching need coursing through him long enough to open the window and peer outside into the darkness. It was permeated with the far away sounds of low conversation and the occasional clopping of hooves. A dog barked somewhere below them.

Connor stood beside him quietly, taking in the outside world with what seemed like a mixture of anxiety and anticipation.

"Climbing isn't going to happen with your shoulder," Haytham warned. But they were upstairs, and it shouldn't be too difficult to help him up. Haytham climbed carefully onto the sill and worked his away around to cling to the siding.

To his credit, Connor followed smoothly, with a calculated caution that only made Haytham need to put hands on him more. He edged his way along after Haytham, letting his feet and good hand do all the work while his injured arm hung.

It wasn't far at all to claw and then vault up onto the rooftop. Haytham managed it quickly and turned to take hold of Connor's clinging hand. "I've got you," he said, and heaved Connor up, the Assassin helping with a good strong kick off of one of the side boardings.

Haytham replaced his hand-hold with an arm around Connor's waist and shifted them both backward up the shallow roof until they were a good distance. "There," he said quietly.

For a bit, any sexual progress was delayed as the two stared out into the night, eyes fixed on a lantern here, a moving shadow there. It was beautiful, grimy, smokey, and everything smelled of what Haytham realized with the same aching regret it always caused: home. He may not have been born here, and God knew he'd spent many years aching for his homeland, the comfortable walls of his house, and the comforting familiarity of a warm cup of tea in the evening. But by now, thanks in part to Charles, and in part to the passage of time, Boston was as much a part of him as any place he'd set foot.

The Assassin and the Templar sat together admiring the city from their secret perch for what seemed hours: Connor reclining comfortably into Haytham, head on his shoulder, and a soft smile on his lips. Haytham wrapped an arm around him, questioning for the thousandth time what they were doing, and he ran his fingertips over the back of Connor's hand, feeling the veins that jutted out.

"Tomorrow will be better," Connor said, breaking the silence at last.

Haytham wasn't sure which unfortunate part of today he was referring to, but he didn't ask. Instead, he simply placed a kiss against Connor's hair, drinking in the feel of it against his lips, and his cheek as he tilted his head to rest against Connor's.

And then Connor shifted, just as Haytham was settling into the idea of a quiet evening dozing on the rooftop, sans sex, and he was forced to lift his head again. Connor looked at him for a half-second, if that, before kissing him, smiling into it. Surprised, Haytham returned the kiss softly, savoring the unexpected continuation of their earlier antics.

The beginning was all gentleness, caressing Connor's hair, the nape of his neck, and Connor nibbling lightly at Haytham's lip. But soon enough it turned more urgent, replaced with nips, tugs, and Connor's fingers clenched tightly in his hair, wrenching it free of its tie.

With a grunt, Haytham found himself being pushed into the roofing, Connor's body weight pressing down on him in a way that momentarily summoned feelings of claustrophobia. "Connor!" he said, concern and arousal rising in equal measure. As Connor braced himself, one hand by Haytham's head, and leaned down to claim another kiss, Haytham met him, pressing needily against his lips, and rolling his hips up in an attempt to gain more contact.

A sharp sting drew blood from his lip as Connor nipped him again, and Haytham half-moaned, half-growled and fought back full-force, encircling Connor in his arms, fingers clawing into his back. This was nothing like before . . . and yet, it was Connor, his hips crushing against Haytham's, his cock hard and urgent, pushing against their clothing, and his sweet, beautiful, poisonous mouth, claiming his. Haytham's need for control warred with his need for more, more of this terrible undoing. He let Connor keep the reins.

Clothes were ripped away a moment later, with some awkward scrambling and a small laugh from Haytham, who was pleased to see such a hungry look in the typically stoic Assassin's eyes. He couldn't be sure, he thought, as Connor began kissing, nipping, and licking along his collarbone, his shoulder, his chest . . . oh God. He couldn't be sure, but it seemed as though his son was finally at ease with this awful lust. The tender shyness of their last encounter seemed far away, but locked safely, he knew, in a special memory, to be taken out only occasionally, and looked on with fond warmth. This . . . this was all predatory.

"Haytham," Connor said, his voice strangely cool as he sat back and ran teasing fingers along Haytham's side, towards his hip. "I know that you love Charles, and that that love keeps you from allowing him harm."

Haytham looked up at him, confusion pushing back initial annoyance at the topic's resurgence. It was so hard to be anything but desperate with his cock rock-hard against Connor's, and that insufferable brat sitting there calm as anything, like they were discussing the possibility of rain. This was a very, very different animal than Haytham had anticipated meeting tonight.

"But you should know," Connor continued, placing his hand in the center of Haytham's chest, and leaning forward so that Haytham's breath caught. "That I can lay claim too."

The notion that someone like Haytham Kenway, respected Templar senior, damned good in the murder business, and known for a temper like freezing rain, could be possessed by someone . . . it struck a strange chord in him. He was not a man to be claimed. And yet he knew, deep down, that Charles had managed to do just that. Slowly, quietly, he had laid down a foundation of trust, dependency, love, and lust, that left Haytham weak in the knees and in the heart.

But this was different. Connor looked down at him, eyes piercing into his, his thigh now pressing mockingly against his groin, moving in tiny rocks. This was not an ultimatum imposed by two lovers at war for his affections. This was a challenge, to Haytham himself: to withdraw his emotions, to overcome his weakness, if he could. And Connor was certain of his own chances. He would win. He already had.

Haytham's jaw set and he searched for something cutting to say. But he remembered Ziio, and how empty he'd felt. He thought about the impending loss of Charles: whether by the hand of this Assassin, or his own, or Charles himself, he could not say. But he would be alone. He always ended up that way. Yet Connor remained.

Finally, he breathed, "Then you're mine just as surely."

This seemed to satisfy Connor, who gave a half-smile, and finally allowed Haytham the relief of a strong hand on his cock, which was slick with pre-cum, and aching with neglect.

Across the alley, in the window of the home opposite, a single lamp burned in the eerie night, and a figure crossed in front of it -- stopped -- and hurried to close the shutters.


	26. Clatter

 

Tomorrow didn't prove better. At least, it showed distinct signs from the first dawnlight that crept in the still-open window, of being, in fact, a rather wretched day. Haytham woke up quietly enough, eased into the land of the waking by the sound of muffled footsteps in the hallway outside, the chittering of city birds, and the bustle of activity that characterized Boston, wafting in the window. He yawned, stretched a little, and rolled over to curl an arm over Connor's side.

The Assassin lay with his back to him, still breathing deep and easy. And, in that moment, all was peaceful. But the illusion was quickly dismantled by a staccato rap at the door.

  
Connor let out a quiet grumble, but did not wake.

  
Haytham quietly extracted himself from the bed-clothes and padded to the door, trying to avoid making any noise that would give evidence to the intruder that someone was indeed in. He held his breath by the door, listening. There was no second round of knocking. But there was clearly someone still there, waiting patiently.

"Who's there?" Haytham asked eventually.

  
"Master Kenway? Good." Haytham recognized the voice: a young prospective Templar called Devon, who often ran messages. The boy quickly identified himself as such. "I've a letter for you, was told you'd be here."

  
Haytham opened the door a crack and looked out. Devon was unkempt, all muddied boots and haystack hair. "Well, give it, then."

 

Devon handed him the letter, but hesitated in the doorway. "Master Lee requests that you meet him at the Green Dragon, at your earliest convenience."

 

Haytham nodded. "Very good, thank you. Is that all?"

  
"Yes, sir," Devon said, seeming to realize he was loitering. He hurried away after an awkward head-nod of farewell.

  
Haytham closed the door, and leaned back against it, letting out a tired sigh. He was vaguely aware of Connor watching him, eyes dreary, from the bed.

  
"What is it?" The Assassin asked, his voice no less lethargic. He stretched luxuriously, cat-like, and curled closer into himself.

  
"Charles already knows we're here," Haytham murmured. He had assumed it wouldn't take long at all for the Templars to find him. They had eyes everywhere, and knew nearly all comings and goings in Boston.

Yet he'd had some small hope that giving a false name to the innkeep would have bought them at least half a day before their exact room was located. So much for that. They should have stayed in a stable somewhere.

  
He closed his eyes, forcing his nerves to quiet. There was no reason to hide from the Order, or from Charles. His company was questionable, but not inexplicable. And even if it were a problem, it put him in no risk. Only a mire of complications. Haytham's eyes opened again as he heard Connor shifting and rising from the bed.

  
"Is he coming here?" Connor asked, wandering closer to stand beside Haytham.

  
"No. No, I'll meet him."

  
"He must know I am with you."

  
Haytham nodded, his heart dropping into his stomach. "Yes."

  
"But the messenger said nothing?"

"No."

  
Connor seemed to sense Haytham's growing anxiety, because he took a step back. His eyes were on the letter that Haytham clutched in one hand. "What is that?"

Instead of answering, the Templar simply unfolded it. It was in Charles' elegant scrawl, neat and dark from a heavy hand with the ink. 

>   
>  _Greetings, Haytham,_
> 
> _I hope that this letter finds you in good health and spirit._  
>  _It has been some time since we have spoken, and I will not feign ignorance as to why. Instead, I propose that we meet, and discuss your current situation._

 

Haytham's eyes paused in scanning the letter at the word 'situation.' That could suggest a few things: his conflicted loyalties, his companionship with Connor -- his injury even . . .

 

> _Others have been asking after you, wondering when you intend to resume your full duties. I dared not hazard a guess, as you have been less than dependable of late. A word from you to the others would surely do great good in soothing their complaints._
> 
>   
>  _I question how long we can maintain our current pretense of structure without your presence here. If you do not intend to lead us, we must be informed, so that we may find a suitable replacement. After all, what is such an organization as ours, that promotes order, without order within?_

 

Haytham made a noise deep in his throat that could only be described as a growl. He crumpled the letter up and made for his shirt and coat. "Stay here, I've got to meet him."

  
"Are you sure that is wise?" Connor asked doubtfully. "What if you are hurt?"

  
Haytham laughed, a humorless dry sound. "You needn't worry about that. You, however, should be sure not to let anyone in this room, no matter what. I'll pay the keep on the way out for another day."

  
"I am not a child," Connor objected, and came to stand in front of Haytham as the Templar pulled on his boots.

  
Haytham looked up at him sharply. "You're my child. Do as I say."

  
For one treacherous second, Connor's eyes flashed mutinously. But it subsided, replaced with concern. "Will there be blood?"

  
No pleasant answer offered itself, and so Haytham remained tensely silent as he shouldered on his overcoat. "Stay," he said curtly, and left Connor standing by the bed.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Connor waited all of ten minutes before leaving. He took time to gather all his things, so that he would have no reason to return, and to put on all of his gear, in anticipation of conflict. It was difficult, with his shoulder in so much pain, even to get dressed. And yet he left out the window, following the track he and Haytham had taken the night before.

  
Without Haytham to help, he grunted from the strain, but eventually made it to the rooftop. He rested a moment, breathing shallowly. With a ginger touch, he tested his shoulder. Pain lanced through his arm and he gritted his teeth. Standing, he set off across the roofs, towards where he knew from past visits the Green Dragon lay.

  
He had pretended not to hear the messenger at the door, wondering how much Haytham would let him in on. But he had heard, quite clearly, where they were to meet. Even if he hadn't, it wasn't hard to guess: the inn was a longtime den for the Templars, a default resting point and rendezvous site.

  
Once he got close, he slowed to a creeping pace, keeping close to the edges of the roofs, or taking cover behind the occasional chimney or roof garden. There were a lot of horses hitched outside the inn, and more in the stables behind, he was sure. A full house. Connor's jaw set with agitation. It would be difficult to make his way unnoticed. But crowds had their advantages for blending, too. He pulled his hood up, and started scanning the surrounding area for an easy descent.

  
Not much offered itself, and he was finally forced to conclude that it was better to go straight in an upper-level window than to try to find a good way down without being noticed or aggravating his injury further. The snow that had riddled the roads not long ago was gone now, which meant there wasn't even a chance of that small padding.

  
This choice ended up being very fortunate, for as Connor made the leap from the neighboring roof to the Green Dragon's, and skidded a few steps forward to re-balance, he stole a glance downward, into the small courtyard behind the inn. And there, up against the back side of the stone wall that enclosed it, were two figures, shaded by wispy tree branches.

  
Connor hurried to flatten himself against the roof, grimacing and biting back a yelp at the discomfort in his arm. Even his old bayonet injury plagued him now as he lay on his belly, peering over the roof's crest.

  
As he let out a quiet, shaky breath, he trained his eagle vision on them, though he easily recognized Haytham's coat, even with the back hidden against the wall. For a second, the world spun around him, and then came into sharp focus on two golden, otherworldly men, cloaked in glowing light, identical. Their golden rays were entangled in each other's, dancing and swirling as Lee, closer to Connor, stood in front of Haytham, whose back was pressed flush against the wall.

  
For one moment Connor's heart caught in his throat, and he thought Lee was threatening Haytham, cornering him; going in for the kill. But then the horror changed to something more malicious . . . a burning rage . . . as he realized this was not an attack. It was an advance.

  
Lee had placed one leg between Haytham's, and while one hand was resting heavily on Haytham's chest, the other braced against the wall. Lee leaned closer, and Connor sensed he was saying something, though he couldn't tell for sure. Haytham stuck out his chin, defiant, but his hands were on Lee's hips. Connor felt bile rising in the back of his throat.

  
He wanted to be able to hear them. To tell what exactly the status was. But he wasn't sure how to get closer without notice. Maybe if he climbed down on the outside of the wall and circled around . . . He was just beginning to look for a good route when a whirl of motion yanked his line of sight back to the Templars.

Haytham had hold of Lee's wrists now, and had forced him around so that now he was backed against the wall, arms pinned over his head. Haytham was close against Lee, leaning his weight into him.

  
A second later they were kissing, harsh and desperate, and Connor looked away, emotions forcing their way to the surface in an unfair barrage. What exactly did this mean? His first sentiment was that Haytham had been too weak to turn away from the Order, from Charles, and that he was too far gone. He angrily shoved away the thought that followed: that if Haytham did not defect from the Templars, Connor would have to move forward with hunting him down and killing him. Unbidden, the fact presented itself that now might be a good opportunity, and he reeled with dizziness and guilt.

  
But once again, his attention was demanded. The two had gone from passion to scuffling, Haytham shoving Lee to one side, and Lee whirling about to kick him, yanking Haytham's injured leg off balance. Connor held his breath, eyes darting after them as they grabbed hold of each other and started grappling in earnest.

  
"Haytham!" Lee cried, backing away from the other, and holding his hands high. Even from the roof, Connor could hear him, but he crept higher, and began edging along to a probable path down into the courtyard. There were a few decent bushes he could hide in if he was cautious.

  
"I won't fight you," Lee said, more quietly, as Connor scrambled down, muffling a cry of pain when he landed with a quiet thump just behind the small hedges. He inched around to where he could see them again, and was pleased to find he could hear them quiet well now.

  
"You thought to uproot me," Haytham accused. His voice was flinty, dark and sharp, and Connor's eyes were fixed on his back as the Templar circled predatorily closer to Lee.

  
Lee was shaking his head, eyes wide, though Connor thought he saw a shallow falseness to the surprise he was projecting. "No, Haytham. I merely suggested that should you feel you've served enough, it might be time to relax your responsibilities. You've seemed so tire--"

  
"I made you what you are," Haytham hissed dangerously. "Without me, you would be in a ditch somewhere, cowering from cannon shrapnel."

  
"Haytham! You're not listening to me," Lee objected, and he took a careful step closer, lowering his hands. Connor reached for his knife, wondering nervously which of them would break this idling first. "You've always been the light in my life," Lee continued quietly, which raised an eyebrow for Connor. He sounded earnest enough, and the tone was foreign to the Assassin coming from Lee's mouth. "My following you never had to do with security -- I mean, this isn't exactly safe work we do."

  
Haytham was listening, though one hand rested on the hilt of his sword, fingers drumming. He stood still, watching his companion.

  
"I want to help you, Hayth," said Lee. "I see you suffering. You're overworked, you're distracted . . . I don't resent that, I _worry_. Let me be your foundation. Let me be by you, as we were, before all this mess with Conn--"

  
"Don't you say his name," Haytham snapped.

 

Connor blinked, surprised at the sudden vehemence.

 

"He's got nothing to do with this. This is about you -- lying, twisting everything around, trying to pretend you're looking out for me. You're not. You think you can coax me into giving you everything I've worked for, but you're nothing, Charles. Without me, you're--"

  
"You aren't all-important, Haytham," Lee spat. "You're human. Did you know that? Do you remember, what it's like, to be human? When was the last time the god graced us by descending to earth?"

Haytham's jaw set as he turned away from Lee halfway, glaring at the ground.

But Lee continued. "Maybe that's why you like the little whelp. Does he treat you like the god you think you are, Hayth? Does he kneel and grovel and lick your boots?"

  
At this, Haytham lost his composure. He launched himself at Lee again, unsheathing his sword and giving a roar that startled Connor from his own shock and into action.

  
The Assassin dove from the bushes, knife in hand, and for a moment both Templars whirled to stand stock-still, staring. The second it took for them to register their audience seemed to stretch endlessly: the Kenways brandishing their blades, and Charles Lee, looking nothing so much in that split instant as a cornered alley cat, torn between fight and flight.

  
But then the moment ended, and Lee's mask of confidence slipped back down. He smirked, eyes glinting, and unsheathed his own sword at last -- clearly more willing to engage with Connor in the mix. "He really is a dog, following at your heels," he scoffed.

  
Haytham ignored the comment, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Connor. "What are you doing here?" he said through gritted teeth.

 

Connor's heart pounded like a drum, with rage, and fear, uncertain of whether Haytham would be willing to attack his friend in earnest. "I was worried," he answered under his breath. "For good reason."

  
"I suppose you think him very loyal," Lee practically purred, as he circled; the Kenways paralleled his movements, eyes trained on him. Apprehension curled in Connor's stomach, though, at Charles' silky tone, and the glint in his eye.

  
"Perhaps it'd interest you to know you're not the only one that can make him bow," Lee continued. "He knelt very prettily for dear Thomas -- you remember Thomas, don't you, Hayth?"

  
Connor's steps faltered for a second, adrenaline spiking through him from the impending combat, and from where Lee was going. He glanced sideways at Haytham, whose expression was unreadable, eyes dark and fixed on the other Templar.

  
"I do," Haytham said tightly. "I remember his greed, and his cockiness. It's what got him killed." Connor was somewhat surprised to hear Haytham berate one of his own, but it warmed him with much-needed reassurance.

  
"Wrong," Lee interjected, waving his sword. "That half-breed is what got him killed."

  
Haytham didn't look at Connor, though Lee did, leering at him with a malice that churned his marrow.

  
"Still," Lee shrugged, studying the hilt of his sword casually, as if bored. "He did get in a damn good bit of head before snuffing it, didn't he, Connor?" He glanced up, smiling. "You were practically begging for it, you took it so deep."

  
Connor felt the ground falling away under him and blinked, giving himself a shake. He tried to keep his eyes focused on the tip of Lee's sword, but he couldn't keep from looking to Haytham again, waiting for the look of disgust, disappointment, or simple rage. But Haytham's expression maintained graceful neutrality.

  
"Was going to fuck him myself," Lee continued, his words an endless stream that raised bile in Connor's throat. "Shove him into the stone and fuck him 'til that red skin was a little redder all over."

  
At last, Haytham's eyes, which had seemed glazed and distant, flared, and he barked, "Connor, right!" And together they launched themselves, Connor to Lee's right, Haytham to his left, and set in like dogs upon a hare.

  
The clang of metal on metal rang in the garden, for the whole city to hear, and boots scuffled from side to side as the two Templars lashed at each other violently. Lee parried Haytham's every blow, staying on the defensive for the most part, and as Connor tried to come around further to his right side, knife clutched tightly, the Templar backed up, keeping them both firmly in sight.

  
Haytham's slashes were desperate, swinging wide, unceasing jab after sweep, and his jaw was set in a hateful line. Connor considered getting out his pistol but as he reached to resheathe his knife, Lee suddenly slashed at him, nicking his wrist. Connor winced and jumped back, blood dripping down his hand.

  
"You've hidden this a long time," Haytham accused, his voice calm but audible over the renewed clash of blade on blade.

  
"What's that?" Lee asked, laughing with what sounded distinctly of hysteria. He brought a particularly fierce blow down at Haytham's head, but the other parried it, grunting as he met the swing's weight.

  
Connor moved again for his gun, unholstering it with shaking hand. He leveled it, and backed up still more, trying to train it on Lee. But it was like hitting a circling hawk, as the two men mirrored each other's rotations, darting and lunging.

  
"How hateful you truly are," Haytham replied. "How long have you despised me, Charles, while lying in my bed?"

  
For a moment Lee seemed to falter, as their blades met and each held them still, glaring at each other over the silver metal. Haytham had given Connor the shot he needed, though neither seemed aware of him any longer.

  
"I don't, Hayth. I could n--"

  
Powder ignited, and a deafening boom rang in their ears, silencing the noise of the city in the distance, silencing their blades scraping against each other, silencing Charles Lee.

  
For a single moment, Connor could hear nothing but ringing and the gentle bumping of his heart against his chest. His hands were shaking, and he stared past the smoke that billowed from the still-raised pistol. Charles Lee's eyes never left Haytham, though they dulled with the unmistakable film of someone courting death. Haytham, whose back was mostly to Connor, dropped his sword. Though it must have clattered, there was only that awful silence as the Templar leaped forward.

  
Haytham shoved Lee's sword aside -- it was still clutched tightly -- and seized him, pulling him close. They fell to their knees together, and with a burst of chaos that hurt Connor's ears, sound returned.

  
Lee coughed weakly, his face falling into Haytham's shoulder, as Connor's father cried out, not Lee's name, but Connor's, despair shattering the air.

  
The Assassin dropped the gun at last, fingers uncurling numbly. It clinked dully in the grass and dirt, and Connor walked on shaking legs to stand over the Templars.

  
Lee was falling quickly into darkness, and Haytham laid him out in the grass, supporting his head with one gloved hand.

  
"I hope you don't expect me to beg," Lee was saying. "Not this time. Too long, I've sought kindness from you. I won't ask for a quick passing too."

  
"Charles," Haytham said quietly, looking at the other intently. "Charles, I need to know."

  
Connor stood quietly, feeling as if he were outside of himself. It had been so sudden, so quick. But surely it's what needed to be done; it was the logical result to their scuffle. So why was he so rattled by what he'd done? It was if none of them had really believed the others were mortal. All it took to fell the great Charles Lee was a bullet after all.

  
Lee's breaths were labored, and he gathered air for a moment before smiling weakly. Blood was beginning to pool through his coat, just to the right of his heart. Connor stared at the red as it grew. "I know you do, Hayth."

  
"Please, Charles," Haytham whispered, and Connor only just heard him. "Did you kill her because of me?"

  
The noise of approaching voices ripped Connor's gaze from the scene. Approaching investigators of the gunshot. If anyone came through to the garden, they'd have to fight -- it was clear Haytham wasn't in a retreating mood.

  
"You know the answer," Lee murmured, and coughed, deep red trickling from his lips as Connor looked on him again. Lee reached a tremoring hand to touch Haytham's cheek.

  
Haytham leaned into his hand, and it gave slightly, too weak to support him. "Why? Why did you lie, all this time? It killed me, Charles . . ."

  
Lee's hand fell to the ground, too tired to hold up any longer. "Hayth . . . if I'd told you what I'd done . . . would we have _had_ all this time?" He gave a rattling sigh and smiled once more, an exhausted half-one that Connor knew instinctively would be his last. His eyes were already slipping closed, and Haytham leaned down to rest his forehead against Lee's. He didn't cry, but merely knelt there, statue-still.

  
Connor took a step forward, agitation rising as voices grew closer.

  
"They were good years, Charles," Haytham said quietly, and his voice sounded strained. "Despite everything . . ." he broke off for a moment, swallowing. "We deserved more," he finished after a moment, and then stood, seeming older than Connor had ever thought him before.

"Haytham?" Connor murmured. "We need to go . . . people heard the shot."

  
Haytham nodded, and stooped once more to place a hand on Charles Lee's chest, over the patch of blood. It had stopped its rise and fall.

  
"Haytham," Connor said again, more urgently. "Please, we cannot face soldiers right now."

  
The Templar moved deftly to remove an ornate ring from Lee's finger, the action gentle but quick.

  
Connor watched the entrances to the garden warily. There were shadows moving, and he ran forward, grabbing Haytham's arm. "Haytham, come, _now_!"

  
Finally the Templar turned away, his face steeling into the passive mask Connor had seen all too many times. He put a hand on Connor's shoulder, for a split second, before the two took off, over the courtyard's wall and into the alley beyond.


	27. Flames

They were barely three blocks down the street before Haytham yanked Connor roughly into a narrow alley, lined with crates and barrels. They crouched there, barely under cover, and caught their breaths. Connor had a shocked glaze over his eyes, and his breathing was irregular, even for having just sprinted. Haytham didn't have time to worry about this.

  
"I need to address this," he said calmly. "I need to go back to the Dragon and address my men. They'll want answers, and how quickly I provide them could make all the difference against open revolt."

  
Connor was looking at a spot in the wall behind Haytham. The Templar felt his anger rising and falling in flames that threatened to overtake him. This idiot's impulsiveness had stolen Charles away from him, and set up an internal collapse for the colony's Order branch. It's what he always wanted, and yet here he was acting as though someone had killed his damned horse. He wanted to hit him. Shake him, scream at him. His vision shook with unwanted input from his Eagle Vision, so often ignored of late. Connor glowed golden, and Haytham itched to hold his pistol to the stupid boy's jaw.

  
Instead, he spoke again, as levelly as he could. "I need you to find a safe place to hide until I come for you." Haytham waited a moment, taking a few deep breaths as he scanned his son's face for recognition of the situation. Then, more curtly: "Any suggestions would be welcome."

"I should not leave you," Connor said, voice monotone.

Haytham suppressed a snarl. "Unless you want to turn yourself in as Charles' murderer, I'd rethink that. We are out of options, thanks to you."

  
Connor's eyes flickered, a wounded look coming over him and passing as quickly to be replaced with that infuriating blank stare. "I can go to the warehouse, just off the corner. Stay in the loft."

  
Haytham nodded, swallowing. He needed to stay composed. This wasn't about what had just happened; it was about what needed doing now. "I'll come for you as soon as I'm able. This could take some time to smooth over." He was uncomfortably aware that he wasn't just talking about what this would mean for his men's loyalty.

"Haytham," Connor started quietly, "I thought . . . I thought you wanted--"

  
Something in how the Templar looked at him silenced him. "Go now, Assassin," he said through gritted teeth, "and stay until I retrieve you."

  
When Connor didn't move, Haytham shoved him by his bad shoulder sharply. "GO."

  
Connor jumped up and bolted down the alley, not looking back. As soon as he was around the corner, Haytham slumped against the wall, taking weight off his trembling legs. He let out a slow sigh and closed his eyes. He knew he needed to focus on a plan, but all he could think of was the blood. And Connor's shaking hand, holding a smoking gun. His son. The boy he'd wanted to kill -- had every intention of destroying -- but had made the mistake of getting close to. Wasn't that always his trouble? Letting people in? If he hadn't been so weak with Charles, he would't be a mess lying in an alley now.

  
Haytham swallowed again, feeling his throat tensing up. This was not helpful. He ran over the day's events thus far in his taxed mind. Charles had been talking to the others, without Haytham's input, for a while now. Who knew what all he'd fed them. Now Charles was killed, and they all knew Haytham had just returned to the city, and a meeting had been suggested. Thus, they knew Haytham had killed Charles Lee. The question was, to which were they more loyal at this point?

  
Of course they were loyal to him. Haytham shook his head, feeling like he was walking through the bog after the massacre that had seen the Bulldog's demise. He'd been absent of late, yes, but he commanded their respect, not only for his expertise, but because he'd never given them any reason to mistrust him. He was committed to the Order as much, no, more, than any of they. It was a simple matter of explaining that Charles hadn't been. That he had put himself first and threatened Haytham's life.  
But even as he thought of what had happened in these terms, he knew it wasn't that simple. Even if it were true, he wasn't sure he had the resolve to say those words. Charles' eyes burned in his mind as life left them.

  
Nearby, the clopping of hooves made him instinctively press still closer against cold stone. There were so many innocent people going about their lives . . . and he was crouched in an alley contemplating the best way to excuse himself for yet another murder. It didn't happen often, but now and then all the perspective, the teachings, he'd grown into over the years seemed removed from him. It was times like this that he felt himself slipping from his body, staring at himself and seeing a stranger, with strange ideals. He loathed these uninvited moments of perspective.

  
"Right," he murmured to himself, and moved to stand. His muscles still trembled, but he was regaining control quickly. There was no more time to waste on self-pity, or whatever this wave of nausea was most closely related to. He had a job to do.  


  
It wasn't until about twenty steps into the street that he realized the obvious solution he'd been subconsciously staring down. The loyalty of his companions didn't matter. Whether or not he as good as killed Charles himself, the clinical fact was that he hadn't. Connor had. An Assassin had. He stopped walking after crossing the street, chuckling quietly, almost hysterical. He was amazed he hadn't immediately gone to this plan, this plan so familiar and comfortable to a Templar. Scapegoats were as common a tool as the pistol on his hip. Disgust mingled with amusement, bringing back the uncomfortable lump in his throat; he knew he hadn't thought to tell them about Connor for two reasons, both unacceptable: he felt responsible, and he didn't want them to go on the hunt for his son.

  


  
The son he himself had been hunting not long ago.

  
He kept walking, slowly, deliberately. This was the most reasonable solution. It would remove guilt from him, and it would easily be swallowed. They were all entrenched already in the idea that Connor Kenway needed to die. It would be an easy thing to add more kindling to the bonfire. He would be absolved -- pitied even. They would offer him comfort and support. He could go home as if he hadn't betrayed his dear friend; as if he hadn't fucked his primary target. It could all be fixed with one simple sentence.  


  
As he approached the inn again, he could see soldiers outside the main door. He thought of Charles, slashing wildly with his sword. But he hadn't really wanted to kill Haytham, for all his bravado. Connor couldn't understand that. All he saw was an opportunity to end his personal vendetta. Haytham was angry. He knew he was. He'd been trying to quell that quiet fire, while Connor had been by his side. But now that the Assassin was gone, he found it was rapidly becoming easier to embrace his own absolution.

  


  
This was Connor's fault. He should have killed him when he had the chance. He knew that. But he had been too weak-minded, and this was the price of his foolishness. Connor might be his son, but he was still an Assassin, a target, an enemy, and that it took Charles' death to wake him up to that . . . his heart sunk into his stomach as he quietly walked straight through the circle of soldiers. They let him through without comment. He wasn't sure if that bode well or ill.

  
His confusion didn't clear as he entered the stifling front room, with its smell of ale, low-burnt torches, and body odor. He saw no Templars there; the whole room was empty, save for the innkeep and his wife, a few soldiers, and two quiet patrons against one wall, sipping grog. Haytham started up the stairs, boots heavy like lead. Should he take blame and assert his authority to dispose of traitors? The word felt ugly and unfit for his Charles. But the blame, oh that felt appropriate. Yet it warred against his resentment towards the boy he'd given trust to. The one he'd given his affections, despite all sense.

  
Should he blame Connor and head a new hunt? Could he live with the result if they were at last successful in disposing of the brat? Maybe. But Connor was simultaneously the one who had deprived him of someone he held dear, and himself the only one left.  
As he made the landing and turned to face the worn old table they'd sat at so many times, he saw only Johnson and Church. A bitter taste rose in his mouth as he thought of the irony: he had few people left to explain himself to, which was currently beneficial, but he had Connor to thank for the half-empty table. Unbidden, images of Thomas flickered through his mind. The man had been self-centered, and ignorant in many regards, but even his absence weighed heavily as he stared.

  
"Haytham," Johnson said, breaking the silence. His eyes were narrowed, but he stayed seated. "Good to see you."

  
"I wish it were under better circumstances, Will," Haytham said, hearing a voice other than his own come out. He took a few steps closer, running his hand along the stair banister.

  
Church leaned forward in his seat, studying Haytham in a way that made the Templar's skin crawl. "Where HAVE you been, Kenway?" he asked, sounding a little too pleased at what he obviously expected to be a difficult question.

  
"Business," Haytham answered, trying to make his tone light. He strolled closer, willing his legs to stop shaking as he pulled out a chair. "Nothing interesting, I'm afraid. Especially in light . . . in light of today's trouble. We'd best get to the business at hand."

"We wondered if you'd show up," Johnson said. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, fixing a hard stare on Haytham, who did not look away. "Did you see what happened?"

  
"Yes," Haytham said evenly. "As you likely know, Charles wanted to discuss current events, and come to a decision as to our next move. I came as soon as I was notified, and when I arrived, we went to the garden to talk."

  
"It wasn't something for all ears?" Church asked, raising an eyebrow. "Just you and your favorite? As senior memb--"

  
"We had some private matters to discuss also," Haytham interjected, forcing his temper down. "But we had scarcely gotten past greetings when we were confronted by an Assassin . . ." He took a long breath. This was the deciding moment. He looked away, at the floor, trying to project grief. It wasn't difficult. "I believe," he said, allowing his voice to strain, "that it is my fault. I think I was followed." He looked up slowly, meeting each of their eyes in turn, and knit his brow to show his distress. This too was not difficult.

  
"By whom?" Church asked, sounding bored. "Someone we know?"

  
Johnson, at least, looked more at ease. Like this was a welcome turn.

  
"I'm unsure," Haytham said, regret leaking into his tone. "I . . . I heard the shot, and . . . his coat. There was so much blood. By the time I realized what had happened, all I could see was the back of the killer's coat."

  
"So where have you been, between dear Charles' snuffing it, and your coming here to tell us how heartbroken you are?" Church sneered. Haytham nearly tackled him across the table right then, and the urge to snap the ugly little man's neck made him clench his fists under the table.

  
"Following the Assassin," Haytham growled, jaw tight.

  
"And?" Johnson prompted.

  
A pause for a display of grief. Then, "I lost him."

  
They were all silent for a short while: the two processing Haytham's account, and Haytham processing his chances of salvaging this wreckage.

  
"We're dropping like flies in December," Church ventured at last. His mouth was set in a tight frown. "Clearly there's some room for concern over how things are run when half the men at this table last year are now in the ground."

  
Haytham blinked, seeing clearly in his mind's eye Charles, laid out in a hastily slapped together coffin, hands clasped, face peaceful. He pictured dirt being shoveled over the box. Clunk, clunk. "I don't disagree," he murmured.

  
"You were stationed here to bring order and success to this region. I think it's more than reasonable to say you've done a slip-shod job of that, Master Kenway," Church went on. Normally, this is where Haytham's hackles would have risen, and the two would have brawled, or at least exchanged some sharp reminders of who was in what position and why. But all Haytham did was sit there. Thinking of Charles. Thinking of Connor, huddled in the loft of an empty warehouse, injured and shaking. Bile rose in his throat. His Charles was dead, and the man he should have killed long ago was now under his protection, sitting pretty -- an easy target, waiting for him to return -- and even his enemy's murder of Charles wasn't enough to set him right again. He was sick in the head. Too far gone. He _wasn't_  a fit leader at this time.

  
Johnson coughed quietly. "Haytham, I hate to say it, but I think we need to send a letter over the pond. Let them know the situation. That we need more support."

  
Haytham nodded, glancing up at Johnson. He imagined him holding a torch: hurling it, high in the air, in a beautiful flaming arc, to land over the wall of Ziio's village. He had been there. Whom Haytham called friend and enemy had little meaning these days, it seemed. "Do what you see best. At this moment, I . . . I need to continue my search for the Assassin."

  
The two studied him, and Johnson said at last, "Is that the best purpose you can put yourself to? We have much to do here, Haytham."

  
Church chimed in, "If you don't want this entire chapter to slip through the cracks, you've got to get a grip."

  
Haytham stood abruptly, pushing his chair back with a clatter. "That's precisely what I'm doing, Mr. Church. The quickest way to regain my focus is to put a stop to these petty alley dogs, picking us off one by one. It's time someone did, since the others thus far have been severely disappointing in that regard." He glared fire at Church. "Unless, of course, you think I'd be of better use here, holding your hand while you fret over which of you he'll come for next."

  
Johnson and Church were silent. Haytham started to walk away, then turned. "Where is he?" He asked, voice much quieter now.

  
Church started to say something, but Johnson put up a hand. "The soldiers confiscated the body before we could do anything," he said. "But you may be able to see him, after things quiet down."

  
"I'd like to have a once over in his room," Haytham decided. He needed to gather any documents he'd rather the others didn't get their hands on. They knew this, of course, and eyed him with varying degrees of suspicion.  
"I'll come with you, Hayth," Johnson said. It wasn't an offer.

  
Hayth. He never wanted anyone to call him that again. He never wanted to hear Johnson's murderous voice again, laced with false comfort. He never wanted to see Church's beady little eyes again. He never wanted to think again. But he nodded curtly, and the two left the sitting area, heading for one of the small bedrooms that it let off into.

  
The room was cold, and getting dim now that the sun was starting to sink again. There were books and papers strewn across a rickety-looking desk. Haytham had been in here before, but not for some time. Charles always had the same room. The Templars had perpetual ownership of several at the Green Dragon, due to their lax relationship with the landlord.

  
It was so quiet and dusky that for a moment Haytham didn't even notice the two small, black lumps in one corner, until one lifted its furry head and woofed softly. Chastity, Haytham decided, having no honest idea which it was, wagged her tail hopefully.  
"Hello, girls," Haytham said. This brought them both jumping up and panting, tails windmilling as they danced around his boots.

  
Johnson ignored them, starting to gather up books and other effects. "The most of these," he said quietly, "will have to go straight into the hands of the higher-ups."

  
Haytham didn't answer, kneeling to scratch each dog's head, an unusual rush of affection coming over him to see them so careless. They would need a new home now.

  
"If you take anything, Haytham, I won't mention it," Johnson went on. "I know what he meant to you."

  
Haytham looked up at that, though Johnson's eyes were turned away, studying the piles of letters Charles had left. "I only care if it's got my name on it," Haytham said carefully. "Personal letters and the like."

  
"Of course," Johnson said. He took a step back from the desk. Then, after a pause, he ventured, his deep voice barely above a whisper, "It was Connor Kenway, wasn't it?"

  
Haytham kept his eyes fixed on Chastity's ear.

  
"Why are you protecting him, Haytham? You know what needs done."

  
Haytham glanced up, setting his jaw. "I'm not protecting him," he countered. "Trust me, Will, I want him dead for this. But I need to be the one to do this. For Charles." He had thought as he began the statement that it was a cover. But the words felt genuine, quiet poison slipping through his lips.

  
Johnson gave a half smile, seeming to approve, and the burly man came over to crouch beside him. They both petted the dogs. Haytham thought he'd never been part of a stranger scene.

  
"Will you take them?" Johnson asked, nodding at the animals.

  
Haytham frowned slightly. "I don't know . . . I never really liked the curs."

  
"But they know you," Johnson offered when Haytham didn't say any more. "And you know them. It's good to have someone familiar . . . even a dog."

  
Haytham wanted to accept the offering of comfort, but from William Johnson, it sounded hollow. "Yes," he said at last. "I'll take them for now at least. Keep them fed."

  
After a few more moments of gathering up letters, which Johnson gracefully allowed without requesting to see them before they were confiscated, Haytham took a pair of lead ropes from where they hung on the wall, and leashed up the two little mops of fur, who began prancing excitedly at the prospect of going outside.

  
"Tell Church to send his letters," Haytham said as they reached the door. "But stay here, and make sure he doesn't proclaim himself king."

  
Once they were back in the common area, Church stood and came over. The three men exchanged farewells in the form of veiled contempt, and then Haytham was free to hunt down his most recent lover. He tried to put aside the question of what he would do once he reached the warehouse.

  
"God speed," Johnson called as he reached the stairs.

  
"Stay watchful," Haytham returned. After a second, he added, "And do try not to burn anything down."

  
He felt their eyes on him as he and his two new dependents descended the stairs. The dogs nails clicked absurdly, and one of them nearly tripped in her haste to get outdoors. Haytham tried to run over the conversation, to assess if it had been a success. If he was in danger. But he found it incredibly difficult to care. If Church felt things weren't being run appropriately, let him lodge his complaints. Let him take over the whole damned branch if he wanted to. Let Johnson take matters into his own hands, as he seemed so good at doing. Haytham was ready to walk away from it. This pursuit of Connor would be enough excuse for his next extended absence, at least for now. And by the time they decided he too deserved a manhunt, he'd be long gone -- whether with Connor by his side, or the satisfaction of having gutted him, he couldn't say.


	28. Whirlwind, pt. 1

Nearly three hours had passed before Connor heard anyone approaching. He pressed himself close against the shadowed wall on one side of the loft in the dusty old warehouse, and unconsciously held his breath. Booted footsteps, and then the tiniest flicker of movement where feet blocked sunlight stretching under the large doors at the building's end.

  
Then the feet went past. Connor breathed out slowly; it wasn't anyone for him. His mind dredged up memories of his childhood: crouched low in some brush as he watched, in awe, the slow shuffling of a bear as it went about its business, oblivious to him. He missed the forest. Especially now, in this dark, cold, abandoned shed. What he wouldn't give for a little sunlight.

  
Then his eyes darted to a door along one of the side-walls as a quiet clinking signaled the latch being pulled back. The door creaked open and filtered light fell in a rectangle around a tall figure slipping in. Connor recognized Haytham's frame easily. As his father turned to close the door with the quietest of sounds, Connor moved to the edge of the loft and, after a moment of calculating how best to keep from jolting his shoulder, leaped to the dirt floor below.

  
Haytham turned to face him, standing stiffly and not moving away from the door. In the gloom, Connor thought, as he straightened, that the Templar looked like a bobcat, calculating and apprehensive.

  
"Is everything alright?" Connor asked. He tried to read Haytham's body language, but found nothing but confusion as the Templar seemed to shift forms from man to animal and back, walking toward him in quick, determined strides laced in shadow.

  
Haytham didn't answer, but instead reached out a hand as he came to stand in front of Connor. Connor barely had time to process before Haytham's fingers were around his throat, and the Templar shoved him back onto the floor, knocking the breath from him and making him cough.

  
Connor lay a second, regaining his breath. Haytham was on top of him in an instant, straddling him and, quick as a snake, his fist came back, clearly intended for Connor's face.  
The Assassin cried out, and pulled his legs up around Haytham's waist as well as he could, trying to bowl the Templar to one side. He didn't understand why he was doing this, but clearly questions weren't yet an option.

  
Haytham's fist came down hard against his jaw, and Connor's head turned, his teeth jarring together. He let out a grunt, using his good arm to push against Haytham's shoulder; finally the Templar was dislodged with a sound kick and Connor strained to pull himself upright while Haytham sprang away. "What are you doing?" Connor demanded, biting back a pained whine as the speech alerted him to the lancing feeling in his jaw all the more.

  
Haytham laughed curtly, but did not attack again. "You, Connor, have single-handedly destroyed my life. You should be honored." Then, as if an afterthought, he added: "Does it surprise you that I'd want to put an end to you, after today?"

  
Connor's heart was racing. This didn't seem right at all. But, he thought uneasily, it made sense that the Templar would be more than distraught. And when Haytham was upset, he tended toward rage. Guilt churned as Connor tried to keep his focus on Haytham for any sign of further movement. No, it shouldn't surprise him. He had killed Haytham's lover, and made him explain Lee's death to the other Templars. Of course they would be out for blood more than ever now; why should he expect Haytham to turn on Lee and the rest of the Order in one day?

  
Some part of him had thought, as he crouched there in the loft, that Haytham would, through this explanation, understand, come to realize, that what Connor had done was for both of them. That he would come back, exhausted but freed, and they would curl into each other and breathe evenly for a while. That had clearly been a stupid daydream to indulge.

  
"Haytham," Connor started to say.

  
"No," Haytham interrupted immediately, and he was circling Connor, slow and deliberate. The Templar's right hand rested menacingly on his holstered pistol. "Before you, things were going well. I let you break apart everything I'd worked for, everything I--" he broke off, clenching his jaw and halting between Connor and the ladder leading to the loft above.

  
Connor stood, heart hammering against his chest, and searched for something to say, but words failed him. He raised his hands slowly, palms open. "Haytham," he said simply.  
Haytham's response was spat. "I should have killed you the moment I had you alone."

  
The words stung, though they were hardly foreign. Connor had thought them himself on multiple occasions. "But you did not," he said quietly. "We each should have killed the other. But we cannot."

 

"Maybe you can't," Haytham scoffed. "You've made me weak, Connor. You've stripped away everything I ever held valuable. But I am not yet completely undone."

  
"I have done nothing!" Connor protested, though the guilt in his stomach was now rising in his throat, making it hard to breathe. The smoke from his gun moments after that fateful shot floated in his vision, its smell strong in his nostrils.

  
"I can still correct this," Haytham was saying, more quietly now. More predatorily. "If you truly want to fix what you've done, prove it." And the pistol was un-holstered.

  
The metallic click of it rung in the empty warehouse, and Connor stared, feeling very lost and small. Had Haytham been this angry before and simply pretended not to be? Or had something happened, when he spoke with the Templars, to make him remember his hateful nature?

  
No. It did not matter. This was not his nature. This was his fear: his fear of being torn wide open. Fear forced his hand, forced him to prove he still had it in him.

  
Connor raised his hands higher, level with his head. His shoulder lanced from the pain of the movement, but he gritted his teeth and held fast.

  
The two stood, each shaking -- Connor from fear and guilt, and Haytham, oh Haytham. He must be afraid too, so alone now. But there was a quiet hope in the air between them: surely if the great Haytham Kenway, careless murderer of any who annoyed him, hadn't fired yet, he didn't intend to.

  
Softly, Connor spoke. "I was trying to protect you," he offered. Then, more brazenly, he started: "If I had not been there--"

  
"Charles would be alive!" Haytham cried, but his voice was strained, and it was clear he didn't really want to fight any more. He just wanted something to be right again. Connor took a step forward, hands still raised.

  
"And you would be dead."

  
In the moment Connor had been certain of it. When he had heard Lee's venomous words, seen the look in his eye, he had had no doubt that the Templar would have killed Haytham. But clearly Haytham hadn't accepted that reality yet.

  
Still, Haytham's gun hand wavered, and then, in centimeters, lowered. He did not re-holster it. His eyes fixed on the wall behind Connor and to one side, jaw working as he kept himself from speaking. Or maybe he was trying to and couldn't . . .

  
"I could not watch that happen. Please, Haytham. I understand your anger. But please do not think I would ever have done what I did to hurt you, or to cause trouble, or--" Connor knew he was saying too much, the words an unending river. "Please." He said yet again, and took another two steps. They were close again now -- perhaps a yard between them.

  
"All I want is peace," Connor murmured. He reached out a cautious hand, placing it over Haytham's; over the gun. "Kill me if you will, but do not think I caused this. I only tried to end it." And Haytham let him take the pistol. Let Connor come into his space, and carefully reholster the gun for him, arm brushing against him.

  
Haytham let out a ragged sigh, and leaned forward, resting his head on Connor's shoulder. He didn't speak, and Connor could feel all the half-formed hatred and remorse swirling inside the Templar. He put his good arm around Haytham, holding him close, and the Templar gave a half-hearted grunt of protest.

  
"I should never have looked at you longer than to secure a sure shot," he whispered against Connor's neck. He sounded ancient, exhausted from years of being beaten down.  
"What happened with the others?" Connor asked quietly. Haytham didn't answer, but moved out of their embrace, turning haltingly toward the loft.

  
Deciding not to try interpreting Haytham's here-and-there behavior, Connor simply followed him as he scaled the ladder leading to the upper level. There, Haytham seated himself in a less dusty portion of flooring. Connor came to sit cross-legged in front of him.

  
"You must think me mad," Haytham said dryly.

  
Connor's brow creased and he frowned, before giving a small shrug. "I cannot blame you for being angry," he commented. "Or for missing him . . ." This addition was much quieter, caution prickling over the Assassin's skin. It was a very real risk that he might set Haytham off again in any attempts to show empathy.

  
But Haytham just let out a short breath, a kind of put out laugh, and stretched out the leg he'd injured what seemed like ages ago. He leaned back, bracing himself with both arms behind him, and looked over at Connor. "I've never known a man like I knew Charles," he said. "And I don't think I ever shall again."

  
The corner of Connor's mouth twitched in a grimace of acknowledgement. "I wish it had not been necessary."

  
"I know, Connor . . ." Haytham closed his eyes, breathing in slow even breaths that betrayed the fact he was still actively pushing down hot anger. "The others, they . . ." he gathered his thoughts a second. "They've put me in quite a spot, Connor: I can kill you now, take my place back at the head of that table, and be the leader I've been depriving them of for months -- or I can hand them the whole thing, let them sort it out themselves from here, and break away."

 

Break away? From the Templar Order? Connor blinked, tilting his head slightly at the idea. "Will they allow it?" he asked carefully.

  
"No."

  
Connor frowned, thoughts whirling. "Do you want . . . to run away, Haytham?"

  
Haytham's brow crinkled at the words "run away" but he didn't answer immediately. Instead, he lay back flat on the loft's floor, stirring up dust and straw, and stared up into the dark rafters above them. "I think," he said eventually, in a tone that reminded Connor more of their banter by the campfire so many times before, "I'm ready to retire. I didn't make this damned mess, I don't see why I should clean up for them."

  
"It will be difficult to leave them without consequence," Connor noted. But his heart was already dancing, at the thought that Haytham would leave those murderers behind. That he could see Lee's death wasn't meant to hurt him, but to protect and free him. That he would want to choose Connor over the ones that kept hurting him.

  
Haytham shifted his left arm over enough to brush Connor's knee with his fingertips, and Connor reached to place his own hand over the Templar's. The touch was welcome, even as he grew more and more aware of the soreness coming over him from where Haytham had hit and grappled him.

  
"You were trying to keep me from getting killed," Haytham said, voice strained. "That is what is important now. Connor . . . I need you to protect me even more now. Keep me safe until my mind quiets and my heart is still. Help me see the truth until it feels real."

  
Connor had seen Haytham vulnerable before, more than once. But this . . . this admission of weakness, of Haytham Kenway himself needing help to see what was right or not -- it scared him. It must be sickening, to break away from an order he'd been raised in. Connor hadn't become an Assassin until later in life; as far as he knew, Haytham had known little else. Of course tearing away from it would seem a damned path.

  
The young Assassin looked over at the more experienced warrior, their roles in the moment teetering threateningly, and he swallowed hard to keep his own voice from faltering when he answered. He fixed his eyes on his father's, seeing in them those subtle hints of his heritage that seemed now overwhelming. "I will prove you right to trust me."


	29. Whirlwind, pt. 2

Unsure what the morning would bring, or where was safe in the middle of Boston with so many suspicious eyes, the two slept in the loft that night. Haytham had tied the dogs outside until he was sure what he was planning to do about Connor.

  
Part of him was ashamed, that he had so thoroughly courted the idea of putting Connor down -- just walking into that dim shed and shooting him on the spot. But the other half of him was also bitter with uncertainty, that he had not. That he now lay beside Connor in that darkness, knowing what the Assassin had done that very day. Sharing a bed-place with the killer of his lover wasn't something he'd ever have thought he could stand before Connor had sunk his teeth in so carefully.

  
And yet, hadn't Haytham done just that with Charles for years? Slept beside a man with cherished blood on his hands and no remorse.

  
Haytham shifted, and one of the dogs yipped in her sleep. Haytham had intended to tie them in one corner of the wide open area below, and leave them for the night, but Connor insisted on carrying each one up to the loft under his good arm and depositing them in the straw. It had been a precarious ordeal.

  
Introducing them was also ridiculous. "Connor," he had said, "This is Chastity. And this is Prudence. Or the other way round. I'm really not sure." And his son had looked at the ridiculous mops of animals for a few beats, while they strained at their ropes, tails whirling madly, drool dripping from their panting mouths. Then he'd crouched down and the dogs jumped all over him, licking him and pawing at him with muddy toes. And that had been that.

  
Now, in the gloom, Haytham could see one of the animals curled halfway on top of Connor's chest, and the other, which had squeaked moments before, was wedged irritatingly between Haytham's body and Connor. It was Chastity, he decided.

  
Haytham rooted around in his coat, which had been tossed to one side just before bed. His fingers clasped over the papers he'd confiscated from Charles' room, and he gathered them up. It was too dark in the empty warehouse to see any more than their pale outline. But, unable to sleep for thoughts of Charles, he knew he needed to read them.

  
The Templar began cautiously to extract himself from the pile of sleeping bodies, and crept toward the ladder. There was likely to be a lantern somewhere below, and if not, he could always go for a walk.

  
He would need to be careful though . . . careful in his own foster home of Boston. Things had shifted so much that he should feel hunted in his own town. Was he really doing this -- contemplating abandoning his precious Order? As he turned to descend the ladder, he stared over at Connor, covered in a fluffy dog leg here, tail there, and an apprehensive half-smile formed. This boy had changed the game, and it came as sickening and a relief in waves, to think of the trade he was making.

  
On the ground again, he quickly located a pile of crates under the loft, on one of which there was a cobweb-covered lantern. He took it, and it swung and creaked as he held it to one side and fished around for flint and iron. His luck ended there, however, as there was none to be found.

  
With a tired sigh, Haytham moved to the side-door he'd come through earlier. He had been so sure, only hours before, that he could do what was required of him, when he'd entered that warehouse. Now, feeling childish for having believed it, he crept outside again, thinking of all the previous targets he'd put to rest without the slightest hesitation. Yet Connor kept turning him around, holding him too close to strike.

  
It didn't take long to find a lantern closer to the main streets, and he lit his own from the first he came to. He waited a moment to be sure it would stay burning, and then backtracked. Within a minute he was huddled in one corner of the abandoned warehouse, under the loft where the light was least likely to attract Connor's attention, should he wake. He settled as comfortably as one could on hard-packed dirt and splinters of broken crate, and began to read.

  
Most of the papers he'd taken were easy to glance at and dismiss: either things he himself had sent to Charles, or small notes about things Charles needed to remember. Haytham was filled with a warm pride, as he often was when he'd watched Charles' work, that nowhere in these records was there any mention of specific locations, or names beyond "H" or occasionally "Hayth," mainly in the letters.

  
Looking at them, it didn't seem real, that Charles Lee was gone. That he would soon be buried, and Haytham would never hear his voice again. The writing in every piece was so assured; Charles had never seen a future where they weren't together.

  
Until finally Haytham came to it: a neatly folded letter, several pages, all unbent or dirtied with time. It looked as though it had never been unfolded, the creases strong and uncompromised. Haytham had taken it because it had his name on it, in loose, stuttering scrawl.

  
As the lamplight flickered off the black ink, which was spilled here and there, pooling in ways Charles never allowed in a finished product, Haytham's fingers grew cold. A numb feeling spread up his arms and through his body and his throat turned dry.

>   
>    
>  Haytham,
> 
>   
>  I have no doubt that today will mark the end of an era. Whether of your reign, or my affliction of you, I cannot say. I've never done well predicting the outcomes of our quarrels. I only know today will see the death of one. I wish there were another path. I would give anything to keep it from coming to this. But it has and we must make the best of the lots we've drawn.
> 
>   
>  When first we met, I thought I had never met a more infuriating man. Your heights were unattainable, you were an unrivaled asset to the Order, and I wanted more than anything to be like you and gain your favor. That has not changed, Hayth. I still feel you are the best man this Order has brought forth in a century or more and I would die for you. Indeed, I may today.
> 
>   
>  Where we disagree, and what makes today necessary, is your refusal to apply yourself. Your skill cannot be argued, but your will . . . Hayth, I've never seen someone so great fall so far. You have lost yourself and what we fight for, and if you will not let me guide you, just this once, I fear you will be lost forever. Both of us took an oath to uphold this order give ourselves to it fully. You have broken that oath and there must be consequence.
> 
>   
>  Please never think this doesn't break me apart inside, Haytham. I have looked up to you for so long. You have been my model, my courage, and my hope. It is precisely for these reasons that I must be the one to confront you. If you cannot see what you have inspired in me, and in the rest of your men, perhaps it is truly time I succeeded you.
> 
>   
>  I have never loved you more. If I fall, let my last request be this: I beg you to return to us, to lend us your strength just a while longer and remember what you are here to accomplish. I have faith in you even now. And if you should fall, I will keep this letter close to my heart, lest I forget who carried me this far. You will never be out of my mind.
> 
>   
>  Yours always,
> 
> Charles

 

If he had sought comforting words to lull him to sleep, he had never been more disappointed. Haytham's eyes were not closed longer than a blink for the remainder of the evening, and as the morning sun began to slice through the cracks in the walls, it only filled him with a deeper emptiness. He moved at last, bones aching, eager to seek comfort in the arms of the Assassin who dozed, oblivious, above his head.


	30. Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy SHIT it's been a while. Um. Thanks for waiting for this so long. I always thought about it fondly and wanted to come back, but I was terrified I couldn't do it justice any more. I felt like I had lost the state of mind I was in when I wrote all the chapters before this, and I just didn't want to ruin it for everyone by adding more just for the sake of it. I'm trying to work through that fear though, and I hope anyone who finds this dusty old thing now enjoys it. 
> 
> It's been a small pairing in a small fandom, so it hasn't gotten that much love, but what I've gotten honestly changed me as a writer and made me so much more confident. So I'm really grateful to anyone who helped along the way with encouraging words. You've made me a stronger person, and happier too. 
> 
> The end is in sight!

Connor leaned quietly against the stone church wall, the coolness of it seeping through his thinner colonial-style clothing. His eyes were fixed on the wooden box, around which a small crowd was gathered. He could hear the speaker -- was he a preacher? -- well enough, only missing about a quarter of what he said. He was committing Charles Lee to the grave and "to his maker." 

In the crowd, Connor recognized only a few faces: the Boston Templars, minus Haytham, the innkeep and his wife from the Green Dragon Tavern, and a couple of redcoats he'd seen before -- not, now, in uniform, though. Seeing them outside of their usual context was odd.

The Assassin wasn't entirely sure why he'd felt the need to attend his enemy's funeral. Especially considering the danger, disguise or no. Even Haytham, who had not seemed to want to leave his body, was not in attendance, for just such reason. Connor should be in hiding with him now. But he had needed to step out. To do this. He had overheard the date of it when going out for reconnaissance, and shared it with Haytham immediately.

The Templar had refused to entertain the idea of seeing Lee off, stating it was a good way to get his head blown off his shoulders by any of their former colleagues. While Connor agreed, he had a morbid fascination with the proceedings of colonial funerals, and, indeed, with "seeing off" those he'd killed. Especially considering who Lee was and what he'd done to Connor and his family.

He had perhaps, too, hoped that if he could see Lee being lowered into the ground, it would relieve the aching in his chest and the churning of his stomach. He had wanted to watch his lifelong enemy disappear into the earth and have the reassuring closure of knowing that while his spirit was still very much alive, that of Charles Lee would never disturb him again. This man had caused him, and Haytham, too much pain to simply walk away from. It had to be buried before his eyes.

Now the people were praying and Connor studied their faces. Most bowed their heads, some closed their eyes, some clasped their hands together and two or three in the crowd were moving their lips as if either the prayer was rehearsed and could be recited, or they were adding their own prayer to the speaker's. 

Connor turned his attention back to the coffin as the prayer ended and men moved to lower it into the earth at last. He felt that as the coffin disappeared, so should the weight that had rested on him all these years. But there was still so much of Lee's legacy that loomed around him. 

Just because Lee's body was cold didn't mean anything between himself and Haytham was resolved. It didn't free him from his obligation -- his oath to Achilles -- to destroy the entire Templar order. Lee had only been a small part of that, no matter how large he'd become in Connor's mind.

Did Haytham even factor into extinguishing the order any more? After this fallout, Connor was unsure if Haytham had any intentions of aligning himself with them any more. It wouldn't be safe for him to, surely. But how could he run from them either? They were everywhere, and he would never escape the target on his back, however far he fled.

But neither would Connor. They were both destined to the life of fugitives now, without any respite among former allies. Connor wondered how safe even he would be to go back to Achilles after the events of the last few days. Even if Haytham was unable to rejoin the Templars, it didn't necessarily mean he held no ill intentions towards Connor. Going back to the place Haytham knew he could find him might not be wise.

And Achilles himself wasn't likely to be welcoming if they returned together. Connor had already tried explaining the complicated relationship they shared, and his mentor had wanted little talk of it. Charles Lee being dead wouldn't miraculously make him more receptive to a Templar (former or not) staying in his home.

The prayer ended, and the people began to talk amongst themselves. Some were heading up to the front of the group to speak with the preacher, while most were huddling into small groups and talking softly, as if afraid of disturbing the many laid to rest under their feet. Two men in plain clothes worked to fill in the grave with spades that clinked and scraped every few seconds.

Connor wasn't sure if the funeral itself was over now. It seemed to be. He also didn't know if he felt any different after such a short and nondescript affair. What exactly he had expected to go differently, he couldn't pinpoint. But this was less than satisfactory. Maybe that was just how it felt, watching the dead put to rest. Maybe there was nothing different to feel. It didn't seem like it had felt so empty when it was people he knew from his own home.

Perhaps it was childish to expect to feel the same things for someone so wholly different. Connor let out a small sigh and distanced himself from the crowd, fading back under the shade of a tall tree at the edge of the graveyard with ease from years of practice going unnoticed. The people who had come to see Lee off didn't seem in any hurry to leave. He wouldn't have much opportunity or reason to linger, then.

It was time to return to Haytham. Connor resolved right as he turned back toward the warehouse they were hiding out in that he would not bring up where he'd been. If Haytham asked, he wouldn't lie. But he planned to respect the fact that if Haytham didn't want to sneak out to see Lee buried, he wasn't likely to want to hear anything about it after the fact either.

But his head whirled with the possible greetings he might receive. Haytham must be contemplating his own future too, if not where Connor fit into it. Would he want to stay near Connor? The Assassin couldn't say. 

All he knew was that if Haytham didn't suggest it, he would. Because whatever uncertainties Connor held, he knew that when he was with Haytham, he felt safer than he did alone. And he felt more whole, too. Less like his life was passing him by, meaningless and misled. The man kept him rooted.

Between the rooftops and alleyways, Connor made quick work of the trip back, and remained unseen by anyone that could prove a threat to him. He rapped sharply twice on the large wooden door to the warehouse before unlatching it and stepping inside the gloom. It took a second for his eyes to adjust, and they were drawn immediately to the flickering lamplight from the loft.

He made his way up the ladder and saw Haytham sitting up against the wall. One dog was nestled against each of his outstretched legs, and a half-empty bottle of wine was clutched in his hand. His head was tilted to one side, his eyes closed, but they flickered open when Connor stood before him.

"You were gone a good while," Haytham said. His words were somewhat mumbled, or maybe slurred. Connor wasn't sure which and didn't feel like asking.

"Yes. But now we should talk."

Haytham straightened up slightly and the dogs stretched and one complained with a soft grunt. "Yes, I suppose we ought. Would you start, or shall I?"

Connor just gave a small shrug. If Haytham was willing to start the difficult conversation ahead of them, he wasn't about to open his mouth first. He would rather hear everything Haytham had to say, so that he could weigh it into his views without them being picked apart prematurely. And so he sat down beside Haytham, gently shifting Chastity -- he was pretty sure it was Chastity -- so that she could rest her head and forelegs on his knee.

Haytham drew in a long breath and studied the faded and stained label on his wine bottle. In the flickering light, Connor could still tell that trails of wine had trickled over it several times. Someone wasn't being very careful or coordinated while drinking, it seemed.

As the Templar let his breath out, it rasped a bit. Maybe from the cold, or from the beginnings of sickness. Maybe just from exhaustion. "First, I think it would be prudent to establish whether or not each of us expects to stay together. Things to consider will, of course, include safety, goals for each of our respective orders that we may still align ourselves with, and . . ."

Connor raised an eyebrow but said nothing yet.

"And comfort, too, I suppose."

Comfort. That was the kind of rooting that Haytham gave to Connor that he could build on his own. He might be fine on his own for survival, and he certainly wasn't dependent on anyone else. But when it came down to it, the tug in his gut that made him know he would have brought this up if Haytham didn't came from the need to stay close to the only person in the world any more who made his heart lighter.

"I want that. For us to stay together, I mean," Connor heard himself saying. His words weren't as strong as the feeling behind them -- in fact, they almost quivered in the air between the two men. But they had been spoken, at least, and he felt better for it.

Haytham's eyes widened with surprise but he didn't question Connor's declaration. Instead, he simply said, "I think that it would be wise -- for now, at least. And . . . it's what I want, too. I'm not ready to lose you too. Not after everything."

They were silent for a moment, sitting close but not quite touching, and each trying to find something to fix their eyes on that wasn't each other. Connor ran his fingers slowly through Chastity's fur and she let out a contented sigh. Haytham was back to staring at the wine bottle. 

He took a long swig and then cleared his throat. "Besides, disappearing so completely that we even fall away from each other isn't an option right now. We're both likely to be hunted, and we stand more of a chance of fighting off would-be trackers if we are together."

"We might do better staying hidden if we split up, though," Connor admitted. He couldn't ignore the possibility just because his selfish heart was pounding in his ears and poisoning his mind.

Haytham blinked. "But you don't want to?"

Connor swallowed, thinking his answer through. "No, I do not. But I have to tell you the truth. That I think it might not be wise to stay together. Despite this, it is what I want."

"Then it is what we will do," Haytham said with a wry chuckle that sounded more like the man Connor had known before Lee's death. "Because it's what I want too, and I've never minded a challenge. If there be danger, let us not cower in separate burrows like scared rabbits, but rather face it head-on and together."


	31. Relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go!

With the decision made that they would not separate, there was only one place either could agree was likely to offer any true refuge for them. However much Achilles disagreed with Connor's convictions of late, or his determination to see his father redeemed in any light, Connor had reasonable faith that the old mentor would not turn him out in the cold. They had grown close and understood each other well. 

Connor would make him understand this too: that Haytham had nowhere else to go. That he himself would not be parted from the former Templar. Achilles could accept them both into his home, or neither.

With these thoughts of what they would encounter at the estate, neither had much to say during the ride. The road was muddied from a wave of warmth that had come with the morning, and their horses plodded with distaste through the muck. Aside from comforting the rather distressed Prudence and Chastity, who were tucked one in each of his saddlebags, Haytham kept his gaze on the road ahead. He offered little for conversation, or even much in the way of reassuring glances. His focus was on the sure confrontation ahead. With irritation, he noticed there was sweat on his brow. He was truly nervous.

Connor, for his part, was just as silent. Though he stole glances at Haytham now and again, he said nothing of what was going through his head. He didn't have to. And so their ride was mostly accompanied only by the occasional birdsong or a rider passing from the other direction.

When at last their horses made the steep climb up the last few meters of hill leading to Achilles' mansion, both men were tired, and their horses were growing ornery. The sun was setting in a haze of gold and rose that washed all the branches as if in watercolor.

They dismounted at last and tied the horses at the hitching post in the main area outside the stable. Each quickly set about loosening the saddle girths and slipping the bits out of the horses' mouths so that they could properly rest and drink while they waited for their masters to come back. And then, at last, Haytham looked over at Connor.

He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a nervous half-laugh, half strangled noise of distress. Connor's eyes pinched at the corners in amusement, but he was clearly strained too, because his jaw was very tight. 

"Let us hope he is in an agreeable mood?" Haytham said, his tone suggesting that he found this highly unlikely.

Connor just nodded somberly as he reached into one of Haytham's saddlebags to scoop out a shaky and nippy Prudence. Haytham retrieved Chastity and looked around, wondering where they could put them for now. He supposed they could simply tie their leads to a post. 

But Connor walked toward one of the empty stalls in the stable and Haytham hurried to follow his example. They locked the dogs inside (much to their yapping disapproval), before Connor led the way toward the house. Clearly he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

"Right then," Haytham said, to himself, since Connor was already well ahead of him. And he followed after the boy. With every step he forced himself to focus on keeping his breathing even. He would have rather stayed in the stable with the dogs.

Haytham wasn't concerned with rejection. He couldn't care one bit less whether Achilles was willing to accept him. No, not in and of itself. But how Achilles received their arrival would determine more than his opinion of Haytham. 

It would mean either getting into something heated that could put him on shaky ground with his son once again, or it could mean Connor being rejected too -- leaving them with nowhere to hide, and a bitter taste in both their mouths. That taste, Haytham knew well from years of holding it on his tongue, led to lashing out and quarreling. And he was in no shape to face that from Connor again so soon after making up.

Connor hurried up the stone steps to the front door and rapped on it with a gloved fist a few times. He waited, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His anxiety was heightening. Haytham had to smile slightly to see Connor so on edge in a situation where he was, for once, unlikely to be injured. No, this was purely a social fear. A fear of being denied. Haytham was glad the boy still had any such worry in him, truth told.

The door was slow in opening, but open it did. Achilles' face was shadowed in the small crack he had opened to them. A clearly irritated expression strengthened the lines in his weathered face. The end of a gun barrel as visible just past the door's edge. He didn't say hello -- only grunted, looking from Connor to Haytham, who stood awkwardly behind him.

"And here we are once again," Achilles said after a few moments that made it clear that Connor wasn't planning to speak first.

"Yes." Connor cleared his throat. 

Haytham bit his tongue to keep from trying to move things along.

"Well, you'd better come in and explain yourself."

Achilles opened the door a bit wider and beckoned with his free hand. The rifle in his other was held like a walking stick and he leaned on it slightly as Connor stepped inside. Then he began to close the door again as Haytham stepped forward. "You can stay right where you are," he said gruffly.

Haytham wanted to object at the old goat's stubbornness. But he knew anything he said or did right now could be the deciding factor in whether or not Achilles could be brought round to an agreeable state.

The door closed, and Haytham stood stupidly for a few moments, staring at it. Then he let out a weary sigh and sat down on the steps. Though it had been some time since his knee had dislocated, he could feel some tenderness as he bent it on the shallow stairs. 

Haytham thought about the last time that he had been here. Images of Connor sleeping peacefully next to him when he had woke drifted through his mind, as did the feeling -- the memory strong enough to conjure the sensations again physically -- of Connor pressing him against the Kitchen wall and kissing him deeply. 

He drew in deep, steadying breaths as his head swam. Right now, he would like nothing more than to go up to Connor's room and revisit the four-poster that had been so generously shared. Before, in Achilles' kitchen, he had been thinking about Charles too. He had been contemplating unworthy desertion from his lover. But at that time, deserting Connor had been as viable an option. Now he couldn't even tolerate the thought crossing his mind.

But it wasn't because Charles was dead. It wasn't as simple as one of his lovers being taken out of the equation, making the other the only, and therefore, easier-to-swallow, choice. It was everything else. The way Connor had insisted on going to Boston with him. The way the boy stuck to his side. How he'd helped him up to his own bedroom before, and taken care of him with such genuine concern.

It was Connor's roving hands on that rooftop, and the look of horror in his eyes after he had pulled the trigger on Charles. Though Connor had wanted so much to see Charles dead, he did not relish it. He had proven himself sensitive to Haytham's pain, even when it would have been more than understandable for him not to be receptive at all.

Charles being gone wasn't what had shifted Haytham's plans. It was Connor staying with him, no matter what. This time, there was no thought of betrayal lingering in Haytham's subconscious. He truly did desire to stay by his son's side, and nothing more. He could only hope that Achilles would sense this shift too, and be more welcoming.

Haytham sat on the cool stone steps for what seemed like well over an hour. From the movement of the sun, he was fairly sure the feeling was not inaccurate. The horses were chuffing and snorting from down at the hitching post. Haytham didn't want to leave his post at the door, but he supposed he might as well make himself useful while he waited, and put the horses away properly.

He went down the short pathway leading to the stables. The horses watched him, clearly bored. One stamped a hoof in the dirt, flinging it up. He spoke softly to them as he unhitched them and led them to their stalls.

Then he began to remove their tack. He tried to push down the thought that he might well find himself putting all of it back on them in short order. He had to think optimistically -- something that did not come at all naturally to the Templar.

Once the horses were tended to and given pats on each's flank, Haytham trudged back toward the house. Within about fifteen strides, he could hear raised voices. Or, at least, he could hear Connor's voice. Achilles seemed to be staying calmer, because Haytham couldn't hear any responding shouts. There was definitely anger in Connor's tone, but he didn't sound distressed. That was something.

Haytham pushed down the temptation to knock on the door. Connor didn't need him to check in, and it might inflame the situation. He forced himself to plop down on the steps again -- just as the door swung open wide.

Connor was standing in the doorway. A huge grin split his face and Haytham's eyebrows shot up at the sight. He hadn't seen Connor look so excited without any taint to it. "Come in, Haytham." Connor waved his hand hurriedly. "Come in, he said it is alright now."

Haytham stood up quickly. His legs were stiff, but they felt weak a moment later when Connor's hand met the small of his back and gently urged him forward into the dimly lit house. Achilles was standing in the archway that led into his study. He eyed the pair of them with an expression that Haytham thought looked more of defeat than disdain. 

"Welcome, for now," Achilles said in that strained tone that said not to trifle with him.

"Thank you, sir," Haytham said, dipping his head slightly and removing his hat. "I am in your debt a second time for your hospitality."

"Hmm," was all Achilles responded before shuffling into his study. Over his shoulder, he called, "See to it he doesn't leave the manor unattended, Connor. Nor wander it alone."

"I will," Connor said. His voice sounded more like an annoyed teenager than he probably meant for it to. But Haytham could only revel in how excited his son seemed to finally have some security for the two of them to be together. It was good to see that raw emotion.

Haytham's own heart seemed to be skipping beats, trying to find an old rhythm it had forgotten long ago. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt such hopefulness. This wasn't the anticipation of achieving success or glory. It was a much simpler pleasure in knowing that he was safe, and so was his son, and they would not be separated again. 

_"See to it he doesn't leave the manor unattended,"_ Achilles had said . . . Haytham smiled to himself. He had no intention of leaving Connor's side again.


	32. Finality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains much smut.

Connor's hand slipped into Haytham's at the base of the stairs. He tugged lightly and Haytham followed his son up the creaking old stairs that had given him so much trouble remaining silent on his last visit. This time he enjoyed the sound of them half walking, half stumbling in their haste to reach the top. By the time they got to Connor's door, they were nearly running, Haytham dragged along by Connor's over-eager strength.

  
Connor let go of Haytham's hand once they were inside -- just long enough to close and shut the door with a clap that shook the frame. And then he whirled and both of his strong hands were on Haytham's chest, propelling him toward the bed. Haytham barely had time to process Connor's enthusiasm before he was tumbling down onto the soft mattress.

  
Connor grinned down at him -- a real smile full of warmth and all the sweetness Haytham had sensed was buried in him. "We can stay until we are ready to go," he said. His voice sang.

  
Haytham smiled back up at him, though bewilderment swirled in his mind. He wondered how Connor had convinced Achilles this was a good arrangement. And to have done it so well that even Connor himself felt truly safe . . . safe enough to immediately whisk Haytham up to his bedroom. He decided not to question it. Better to savor it for however long they truly had.

  
Connor flopped down on the bed beside him. Their bodies were touching, but the energy that had been there a moment before seemed reined in now -- if barely. He had questions too.

  
"Are you alright?" Haytham asked, peering at his son. Connor's face was by his shoulder, and both their legs hung over the edge of the bed, his just brushing Haytham's.

  
Connor nodded, letting out a long breath. "I want to just be happy. But I never have been able, I think. To just feel good . . ."

  
Haytham nodded in sympathy. It was a trouble he was by no means a stranger to. "Perhaps," he said, shifting so that he could lean against Connor and brush his forehead against Connor's temple, "I can help keep feeling good to the forefront, at least."

  
Under him, Connor nuzzled against him, only a little. And he smiled again, smaller this time. "This is what I have wanted. For us to be together and to not worry, for just a bit. We do not have to rush to leave on any missions, and no one is trying to keep us apart. We can . . . we can begin to know each other honestly."

  
Haytham brushed one hand lightly over Connor's chest. His shirt was slightly open, and Haytham could feel the heat thrumming under his fingertips. "I intend to take full advantage of it," he murmured.

  
Connor tilted his head back so that he could kiss Haytham's jaw, and Haytham felt himself relaxing as Connor wrapped an arm over his side and back.

  
"We will learn, together, how to be comfortable again," Haytham promised. He ran a hand through Connor's hair and kissed next to his ear.

  
He wanted to stay like this forever. But his son seemed to be regaining his earlier vigor. Connor moved to bowl Haytham onto his back once more, and ended up rolling so that he was half on top of Haytham, one arm slung across his chest to hold him fast. Connor pressed another, more bruising, kiss to Haytham's jaw and then began trailing his way down Haytham's throat.

  
He took his time, but the kisses themselves were pressing enough that Haytham could tell he was holding himself back. Haytham wondered what it would feel like if he didn't. What exactly Connor truly wanted to do right now. Whatever it was, Haytham was sure he would enjoy it just as much.

  
Haytham shifted his legs so that Connor could slip one of his own between. A groan slipped through his lips as he felt the boy's weight pressing down on him, and his hips arched in response. Connor's teeth were grazing over his throat, and in a moment, the Assassin was propping himself up so that he could focus on undoing Haytham's coat.

  
Haytham nudged him back a bit so he could aid in getting it off. And then Connor was pulling his own shirt off and pawing at Haytham's. "Too many layers," Connor muttered in complaint.

  
Haytham put a hand on his chest to make him pause. "Hold a moment," he said, chuckling warmly. "I'll need to remove yet a few more things."" He carefully unbuckled and set on the other side of the bed his hidden blades. Connor blinked and, cheeks warming visibly, removed his own.

  
Something as simple as this made warmth flush in Haytham's chest. He could see it reflected in Connor's eyes: the security of them each willingly discarding their weapons so that there was nothing threatening between them.

  
Haytham didn't know how it was for Connor, but for himself he hardly ever had his hidden blades off his wrists. Being without them made him feel naked despite the cloth that still separated him from Connor's warmth. Some of the only times he had been without them were when he was in bed with Charles. But this . . . this felt different. It wasn't letting himself be vulnerable to a real threat. It was showing that he didn't need them because there was no threat. Connor made him feel safe, and needed, and vulnerable in only all of the right ways.

  
"I . . ." Connor spoke so quietly, Haytham found himself catching his breath to be sure he didn't miss anything. But he didn't continue, clearly nervous.

  
"What is it?" Haytham asked, being sure to keep his tone soft and encouraging. It was the sort of tone he reserved for dear friends in dire moments, or for small children who were afraid of understanding the world too much all at once.

  
"I feel unsure. Unsure that I can let go of how afraid I have been, these last weeks. It is really over, but it does not feel like it. There is still so much to do, so many people that could--"

  
Haytham put a gentle finger to Connor's lips and forced a warm smile through the worry lines that twinged at the corners of his lips. "It is over. There may be future complications. But right now, it is you, and I, with our newly inherited dogs in the stable, and our whole future to figure things out as they come. For now, there is no need to worry. Right now," he leaned down to press a kiss to Connor's forehead, "there is only you for me, and I for you, and all the time we choose to take to heal."

  
His words seemed to comfort Conner. The younger man leaned up into him, holding him close and breathing warm on his neck.

  
"I am not going to part from you again -- that should please Achilles. And we will not deal with the future until we are ready. Let them fester in their plots alone."

  
Haytham guided Connor further back on the bed so that he could rest comfortably against his pillow. And then he climbed on top of him, straddling him with a playful smirk. "And let us focus on more pressing needs."

  
Connor reached to butt his head against Haytham's lightly, and Haytham caught a hand in his long black hair, holding him fast long enough to kiss him. For a quiet moment, there was only his warm lips, and the urgent gasp to his breath as he returned Haytham's kiss full-force. He kissed deeper and harder, his tongue pressing against Haytham's lips, and in seconds it was Haytham whose breath was short.

  
As they pulled apart, Haytham felt a faint flutter in his stomach that reminded him of when he was a much younger man. It was the warm certainty that you would rather be nowhere else in that moment, nor in any other company. He welcomed the feeling like an old friend.

  
He felt like he was pulsing this feeling of security into Connor as he pressed his lips to his son's collarbone and kissed down his chest, undoing his shirt more and more as he followed the path of his sternum before diverging to the right, over his heart. He kissed the visible heartbeat there, and smiled against Connor's copper skin when he heard Connor's breath catch.

  
Haytham traced his tongue along the definition of Connor's muscle, then moved inward to flick it over his taut nipple. Connor's breath didn't just catch now -- it came out in a ragged gasp, and Haytham pressed his advantage, closing his lips over Connor's nipple and sucking teasingly while he flicked his tongue in a fast beat that soon had Connor's hips rising under his own.

  
Connor's fingers were digging into Haytham's hair now, his other hand running along the sinew of Haytham's back. He whispered Haytham's name, almost as if afraid to speak it fully. And Haytham rolled his hips against Connor's, delighting in the way that Connor rose to meet him, and moaned in his ear.

  
It was a kind of pleasant Haytham hadn't experienced before, watching Connor grow bolder before his eyes with each time they spent together in bed. His appetite was growing with his trust, and Haytham intended to see it well fed. He nipped ever-so gently at Connor's nipple before grazing his teeth down and continuing his trail of kisses along Connor's chest to his belly.

  
Connor's hand was still fixed in his hair, holding it perhaps a little too tightly. But Haytham hardly minded the reassuring tugs his son gave that told him he was enjoying the sensations offered to him. Rather, Haytham found that he was fixating on every little sound and tremor of muscles that Connor couldn't keep hidden, and every one of Haytham's kisses was laced with a smile.

  
But as Haytham reached Connor's belt-line, Connor tugged much harder on his hair. Haytham looked up, surprised.

  
Connor's eyes were wide, his pupil's big and his mouth slightly open. His breathing was rapid, chest rising and falling in a way that suggested to Haytham not that he was aroused, but that he was afraid.

  
"Connor, what is it?"

  
"I . . . I'm sorry. It's only that . . ." Connor bit his lips, sorting his words. "I have not done anything like this, or had it done, since what happened. With Hickey."

  
Haytham's heart seemed to fall into his stomach and he felt his throat tightening around his breath as he inhaled slowly. "I see. I'm sorry, I didn't realize what exactly had--"

  
"I know. I didn't want to say. But . . . I just was reminded very suddenly. It made me afraid. I'm alright now."

  
Haytham quirked an eyebrow and shifted his weight slightly to give Connor room to crawl out from under him if he wanted to. "Are you sure?"

  
"Yes. Before, I was made to . . . to do that. For him. But this is different. And it is with you."

  
Haytham frowned a little. "I am glad that you feel safe with me, Connor. But it would be understandable if you did not. I am aware that being with someone else doesn't necessarily mean that you cannot still have difficulty."

  
Connor shrugged, unsure what to say in response. So Haytham continued.

  
"I only want to be sure that you know you can pause or be done entirely at any time. My only goal here is to make you feel good, Connor. I want you to feel as good as you make me by being here alone."

  
Connor's cheeks were heated now, and he smiled, eyes averting Haytham's worried gaze. "Knowing that, and knowing that you do this for me . . . that I do not have to do it for you . . . it should help very much. I want you to, Haytham. I want to feel what it is like, and I want you to show me first. I want to feel your mouth, Haytham. Yours and only yours, ever."

  
"Ever is a long time to commit to," Haytham said with a chuckle that did a poor job of hiding how tight his throat was, voice husky with arousal at Connor's words. Fuck, even the way the boy said his name was something obscene. Haytham could feel himself growing hard against Connor's thigh, and he wanted nothing more in that moment than to give Connor everything he could, and to hear the boy's moans, knowing they were only for his ears.

  
Haytham proceeded gently. He focused on Connor's breathing, and the pulse of his skin under Haytham's as he slowly slipped Connor's trousers down. Even his fingers on Connor's hips had the latter wriggling for more contact, speeding the process of shifting his clothing out of the way. If he still felt any anxiety, he hid it well behind an eagerness that made Haytham hunger.

  
As the fabric pulled away, Connor's cock sprang free, and Haytham was unsurprised to see just how hard his son already was. Although he had seen it before, he was however a little surprised at just how much to him there was. Haytham glanced up at Connor, who was watching him with rapt attention.

  
Connor let out a small breath of encouragement, like the sigh of preparation before attempting something strenuous, and Haytham had to chuckle. He placed a kiss against Connor's warm thigh, savoring the scent that lingered on his skin. And Connor leaned his head back into the pillow behind him, head tilted back so that his throat was exposed as Haytham's attention turned completely to what was within his reach.

  
Haytham traced his tongue at the line on the inside of Connor's thigh, tasting his skin and letting out a groan of pleasure as he drew in his scent. He kneaded Connor's hipbone with one hand, running the other along his other thigh, and kissed until he was at the base of Connor's cock, which was flush with need.

  
His son had begun to raise his hips from the bed, rocking them up to meet Haytham's appreciative lips, and when Haytham pressed them to the side of his cock, Connor gasped. Haytham had to press his hands down firmly on Connor's leg and hip to keep him from bucking upward too much as he began to explore his cock.

  
"You're so beautiful," Haytham murmured between kisses. He grazed his tongue along Connor's shaft, tasting the salt of him and knowing there was nothing he could ever love more. Above him, Connor murmured something incoherent, but definitely positive from the lusty tinge to his voice.

  
"From today onward, all I want to do is bring you pleasure, Connor," Haytham said, just before shifting so that he could slip just the tip of Connor's cock into his mouth. His own pumped with warmth that he would have to ignore for now.

  
Connor's breaths were short as he wriggled under Haytham's attentions, and he let out a low moan that Haytham could swear he felt go straight to his own thighs. In pursuit of still more noises, Haytham swallowed him deeper, closing his lips around him and sucking lightly. A quiet cry of surprise was easily teased from him, along with several words that Haytham didn't understand.

  
Haytham didn't give him time to process the feeling, however. He began to move his mouth along Connor's cock in a fast rhythm that encouraged his son to fuck against him. As if not of his own volition, for how quickly it began, Connor started a rhythm of his own to match, fucking deep to the back of Haytham's throat with each thrust.

  
Haytham's eyes watered slightly as he concentrated on taking as much of Connor inside him as he could, and keeping his teeth from scraping. He tapped at the underside of Connor's cock with his tongue as it filled his mouth, and Connor moaned louder and louder. Any worry of Achilles hearing him seemed far from his mind, and Haytham found that this too made his thighs burn with heat.

  
As Haytham sucked and licked at Connor's cock, he could taste the distinct taste of his seed as it began to slick him up, spread along his shaft by Haytham's diligent tongue. He was so close, Haytham had to laugh softly, his throat tightening around Connor. His eager son, so quick in everything he did. There could be no question of his enjoyment of the act, surely.

  
Feeling Haytham's throat tight around him, and his tongue still lapping at the slit of his cock with every opportunity, Connor began to shudder. Every muscle in him tremored as he felt himself coming close to peak. He gasped, and, alternating between going completely tense and shaking with uncontrolled need, he felt his seed filling Haytham's mouth.

  
Haytham moaned against his cock, choking for just a moment as Connor thrust against the very back of his throat. And then Connor slipped from his mouth with a wet pop that left a thick trail of cum down his father's lips.

  
Haytham was keenly aware of Connor's eyes on him as he licked up the excess from his lips, swallowing it all. Then he dipped his head to lap up what there was smeared and slick on Connor's cock still. Connor lay very still, spent murmurs and sighs of appreciation escaping his lips as Haytham's were kept busy with kissing and licking up every drop of cum left neglected.

  
He licked Connor completely clean, sucking at the sensitive skin and making his overstimulated son shudder. And at last, satisfied, and with the warm, salty taste of his son's seed still coating his throat, he crawled up to lie beside Connor again. He leaned into his shoulder and placed a somewhat sticky kiss on his cheek and Connor, whose eyes were closed, started at the feel of it.

  
"I could get very used to this," Haytham murmured in his ear. "Tasting you and feeling you spill yourself inside me . . ."

  
Connor made a sound that could only be called a whine. "I had no chance of holding myself back," he said drowsily. "You made quick work of me."

  
"There will be plenty of opportunity to enjoy longer pleasures," Haytham whispered, petting his son's hair as Connor's breathing began to slow. "We have everything ahead of us yet."

  
As Connor drifted off to sleep beside him, Haytham watched him with a small smile. The poor boy was exhausted. Giving him opportunity to loosen up the tension he had been holding was clearly beneficial. Haytham would wait to talk to him about less enjoyable things later on: things like where the dogs would live, and if Achilles would take issue with them. Things like asking how Connor had gotten Achilles to agree to Haytham's staying there to begin with.

  
And things like the curious pendant he had kept in his coat for so long now that he had nearly coaxed himself into forgetting about it. Ziio had been concerned when she saw that he had it. Some had tried to steal it from him over the years. In his heart, Haytham knew it wasn't his to be stolen. It belonged with Connor's people. And he ought to return it, some day very soon.

  
Let it serve, then, when he did, as a symbol that he truly had turned from the Templars, with no intent of return.

  
And in the meantime, Haytham lay beside his son and listened to the steady breathing he had come to find so comforting. Evening was settling in heavily now and Haytham watched through the window as it swept its wings over everything silently.

  
He and Connor were safe, for now. But it might not always be so. It was important to savor the night as it was, and not for what it could be in future days. The finality of the day's close weighed on Haytham though, and he rested a hand on Connor's chest, feeling the steady beat there. And the silver dust of moonlight settled coldly on the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, to everyone who read this story to the end, and helped me feel motivated along the way. I am so thrilled to share the ending with you all now!
> 
> If you want to keep up with my more current projects, my tumblr is contrabandofficial. 
> 
> <3


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